


all is fair in love and war

by bad1ands



Series: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days AU [2]
Category: Liam Payne (Musician), One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Advertising Executive Liam, Alternate Universe, Fake/Pretend Relationship, How To Lose A Guy in 10 Days AU, Journalist Zayn, Light Angst, M/M, Older Liam, Slow Burn, Younger Zayn, kind of;
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-17 22:39:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 94,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7288876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bad1ands/pseuds/bad1ands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Up-and-coming journalist Zayn Malik - in hopes of later being allowed to cover more substantial stories - takes on an assignment by which he must pull a guy and then push him away in ten days.<br/>Advertising executive Liam Payne - in order to take over a major campaign for his company - must prove to his associates that he’s able to woo a man in less than two weeks.</p><p>They walk into a bar.</p><p>(An AU based off of the 2003 film <i>How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For myself: it's been a hell of a long ride, and I'm proud that I've finished and am satisfied with the project.
> 
> Thanks to those who have helped me with this in any way - even if just to listen to me fret.

| _Wednesday_ |

A steady buzz runs through his fingertips, shocks a too-wide grin to his face with the final period typed to his latest _How-To_ column. Giddiness is welling up inside his gut like Mentos in soda, and somewhere in the back of his mind he hopes the eventual explosion will be more spectacular than disastrous.

“Zo!” Zayn chirps, bites his tongue a moment later so as not to sound a schoolgirl, “Check this.” _Keep it calm, cool, and collected_ , he reminds himself.

Zoe Sugg, with her chestnut waves and model legs, is the very essence of vanilla – lovely and calm, and Zayn can’t help but relax when she directs her bright smile at him. “What’s it, Hot Stuff?”

“I’ve just finished a new piece,” is all he divulges, toes tapping surreptitiously to allow a bit of tension release.

With a knowing quirk of her eyebrow, his friend rounds their cubicle divider and leans in to scan what Zayn hopes he’ll be allowed to go ahead with as of the next pitch meeting.

He’d like to say that they don’t go through this same routine at least once a month and that neither has fallen so comfortably into their respective role, but, well –

His eyes lead him to the space above his computer. Ranging from ‘How To Dress For Your Body’ to ‘How To Get Out Of A Speeding Ticket,’ the wall of framed Prestige magazines do little to encourage his endeavors of branching out with his writing beyond meaningless entertainment. If anything, the bubble of hope in his stomach minutes itself enough to allow apprehension to settle. Because if he hasn’t led a breakthrough in his career thus far, who’s to say this piece will be any different?

“’How To End Harmful Cultural Appropriation,’” Zoe reads, no indication of her thought process present. Her gaze stays glued to the HP screen, Zayn trying to follow along despite the awful glare of sunlight in his eyes.

Zoe’s quite capable of professionalism, and Zayn’s convinced she could go pro in poker with her facial expression control, but the humor in his ponderings do little to bandage the bullet-hole fact that no excitement radiates from one of his closest friends.

Nevertheless, Zayn musters a hum to encourage Zoe as he jerks his head in a nod, shrugging his shoulders as if it’s no big deal (even though they both know it is). “Figured this wasn’t too outside the box, so I’m hoping Simone will run it.” He flexes his fingers to keep them from loosening the sleek tie that’s wound a suffocating grip around his neck.

Noisy chatter floats at him from all angles, hordes of scantily clad women (an attire quite impressively achieved in what’s supposed to be a professional environment, Zayn dully notes) not a month past twenty-six the source. He picks up snippets of gossip, and the neons around the office space catch his eye as the wall of windows allows daffodil sunlight its entrance, but nothing holds Zayn’s attention long enough to ease his nerves.

“Babe,” Zoe starts, lips tilted commiseratively with soft eyes and a hand to Zayn’s upper arm that’s meant to be comforting, but really –

Zayn’s stomach drops, visibly deflates as his shoulders hunch forward with slender fingers begging to tug through his hair. “I’ve been on this beat for two years, Zo. Two damn years, and all I’ve been able to write about is shopping tips and vacuous fads that people think will cancel their impending Mid-Life Crisis.” _It’s not fair_ he thinks to add, but instead goes with the lesser depreciating conclusion of, “I deserve to be able to cover things that actually _matter_.”

Zoe stands at that, sighing as she straightens her pencil skirt. She’s all business when needed, pressed blouses and moderate makeup these days because natural looks good on her. “I know, babe. But we work for Prestige, and satisfying readers over journalists is how it’s always been, unfortunately.” Empathy is clear in her slight frown and wide eyes, but she refuses to let it appear in full form.

(Which Zayn is glad for, because he can’t stand pity – as he’s let known to everyone that has wormed their way into his inner circle.)

“Remind me why the hell I still work here?” he grumbles, irritation to mask the defeat grating his nerves as he sinks lower in his rolling chair.

A cheeky grin makeups Zoe’s face as she leans casually on Zayn’s desk space. “Because your unassailable knowledge on female predominant topics has the ladies intrigued, which in turn makes you quite the catch, which further raises your pay,” her practiced answer rings true. “Plus,” she finishes as lithe legs click-clack their heels ominously for a perfunctory punchline Zayn’s all too familiar with: “I’m here.”

An untamed grin has the brown boy rolling his eyes, ever fond. “Maybe I should’ve kicked you off a long time ago. I’d be enjoying a job with relevance then, yeah?”

Zoe just tuts as she drags her manicured nails over Zayn’s desk. “You’ll get there one day, kid. And don’t act like you didn’t get a kick from trying out Harry’s chat-up lines for your last column.”

“Fuck!” Zayn hushes, ignoring Zoe’s snark, “I’ve’nt seen Harry today.”

The hum of journalists around them pierces Zayn and Zoe’s bubble for a moment of silence from the two. “I think he broke up with Stephen last night,” Zoe materializes with a sad sigh as the pieces click into place. “Is it your turn or mine?”

Zayn does run a hand through his hair this time, itching for a cigarette and maybe a coffee since the day’s outlook doesn’t appear too bright. But they’ve all three had each other’s backs since joining the Prestige team – new recruits banning together under circumstance – and he doesn’t plan on being a shite friend just because he’s in an off mood. “I’ve got it today. If we’re not back in thirty don’t send help.”

A snort and peck is all Zoe graces him with as she twirls back to her cubicle, dropping down to tidy up miscellaneous papers. “I’ll pick up that herbal tea from the corner.”

“Perfect,” Zayn breathes appreciatively before he snatches up his backpack and brisks to glass doors, steps into the foot traffic of New York City.

**

Once again, owning a motorcycle in Manhattan proves most ingenious as Liam whizzes past the onset of a taxi build-up with minimal honks from pressed drivers. Having tried to ditch off coffee, the rush of the wind is just what he needs to spike a day’s worth of adrenaline.

Also, finding parking spots is incredibly easy.

Snuggling in between two cars, Liam shuts his bike off to get lost in the bustle of the city. His city, he likes to think. Because with travelers and tourists at every intersection, Liam knows they’re standing where he’s stood before, where he’s established his legacy in the billboards they can’t help but gawk at. (Where he’s _trying_ to create a mark in his field, he amends.)

Delaney Pearson, his coworker at Winston Advertising, walks her way past him, tossing a cordial “Hello, Liam” over her shoulder just to commence her reading pleasure at a halt on the sidewalk.

He takes in her grey pantsuit, natural curls straightened to frame her sepia complexion, pauses just to save face. “Pearson,” he nods with a friendly smile as he swings his leg off his motorcycle, “What’ve you got to read this morning?”

The question turns rhetorical when he recites the page off to himself: “Prestige Magazine: _How To Match Your MAC Skin Tone_. Hmm…” Liam looks around as if considering the possible fix, “Promo, promo, promo.”

The woman rolls her eyes with a sneer, ever thinking she’s gained tenure with the few years she holds his senior. “You act like it’s a bad thing, which is daft considering _our_ clients run _our_ campaigns in Prestige quite frequently. Y’know, the fastest growing women’s magazine in the country,” she adds with a condescendingly saccharine smile.

Liam rolls his eyes at that, her petty rivalry with him too much in the morning. “I’m aware, thanks; I’ve got women’s workout clothing on quite a few pages.”

“Yes, well,” she quips haughtily, “It would probably do you some good to actually read said pages to get the best edge. Did I mention,” she flips through a couple articles for dramatic effect, “that Steele and I have an appointment at Prestige today?”

Flashbacks to voluntarily taking on an assignment with the woman for a fortnight crash into Liam, regret like the ninth grade forcing a wrinkle to his nose and an intense urge to vacate the premises. Because he’s ashamed that he didn’t pick up on her tenacious, power-hungry complex from the moment she set her sights on him.

(Because in hindsight it’s obvious she tried seducing him to get ahead in the company. But it didn’t work, and he’s long over it now.)

“Payne,” a new voice addresses Liam as its body clacks down Winston’s steps to form a line of defense beside Delaney.

Although Stacy Steele’s attitude is less hostile, the bad blood of a failed date is evident between her and Liam, exemplified via her ever-strengthening friendship with Delaney. (The term ‘date’ is used loosely, though, considering Liam saw it as a drink to welcome the new coworker whilst Steele saw it as an invitation to bone.)

Self-titled pacifist and man of many nervous ticks, Liam Payne knows when to bow out of a brawl, especially when the odds are stacked so high against him. “Goodbye, ladies,” is all he supplies with a waved salute and confident steps distancing the square feet between the two parties.

An old bell dings Liam’s entrance into his workplace. Winston Advertising reminds him of a man-cave, truly. Especially with an old pool table to the back and flooring consisting of mahogany wood, pine green curtains pulled to the side of the windows because someone felt the need for aesthetic. Entering into his realm brings a fresh ease to Liam’s mental health.

He passes off fist-bumps to his colleagues, tossing smiles to the few situated at their desks while on his way to his office in the corner. Just as he spies Niall through the glass bay doors separating their two spaces, the boy is out of his seat, making his way to Liam.

Niall is all easy chatter with an Irish lilt to his words, a tousled, blonde shock of hair making him rather easy on the eyes. It’s always a good time to work with him, and his only downfall is that he gets lost on the logistics of deals a lot of the time.

But Liam can appreciate the fact that Niall will own up to his disadvantages. And it’s to both of their advantage anyway, because while Niall is sociable and charming enough to entice clients, Liam can deliver the final punch with hard bargaining. That said, with each person distanced from _perfect_ , Liam’s working on upping his small talk skills (not because he’s especially bad at it, just because he feels like he’s a bit boring).

But for now he and Niall work incredibly well as a team.

“How’s it, Payno?” Niall greets him with a slap on the back, the sun behind him highlighting his edges like the mirage of a savior. (Which, in a lot of ways, he is for Liam.)

Color floods Liam’s countenance as his cheeks pinch high in a smile. “Great, Nialler. Anyone new?”

Niall waggles his eyebrows suggestively before dropping the act and laughing it off. “Nah, mate. One off with Stace last month s’all, but, uh…” he trails off.

And Liam shakes his head subtly, fondly, before, “You know, Niall, it’s fine if you want to take her out or summat.”

Baby blue eyes grow comically wide before Niall’s letting out a disbelieving bark of laughter. “Come off it, Leeymo. After what she did to you? She’s bat-shit. One and done,” he finalizes with a shrug.

Liam really can’t help but snicker at that, because, well, she is a bit ludicrous. As he found out after she got plastered at a bar they went to before ditching Liam and somehow ending up in bed with an uninformed Niall.

Feeling as if the subject has hit a dead end, Liam nods his head a bit before gliding to his makeshift closet of a pole suctioned between two filing cabinets and pulling a tartan button-up off its hanger. Red and black, he thinks, looks good on him.

Before anything else can be said, Andy from merchandising is skirting into Liam’s office. “Did you tell him?”

Andy’s looking at Niall, but before either can continue Liam jumps the gun with, “Tell me that he owes me twenty bucks? Tell me I’m right and that the Knicks are top notch?”

Niall, for all his class, curses out a “Shit!” followed by, “I can’t believe you remembered!”

“Remembered what?” pops in an amused timbre along with one Louis Tomlinson, clean jaw and slicked hair in a light suit. He really does clean up nice from beaten Vans and graphic tees.

“Nothin’, ya old bastard,” Niall clamors, heads from colleagues turning to them left and right that have Liam ducking abashedly and Andy waving his hand dismissively.

Louis shoves a punch to Niall’s arm, cerulean irises flashing as his face flushes with laughter. “Hear about the championship series, Payner?”

Niall, bless him, falls back in a chair with his hand slapped over his eyes in defeat. An erotic moan is lamented out of him, and Liam near slams his door shut before his rag-tag group of friends can draw any more attention.

“What are you doing here, Lou?” Liam queries. Belatedly, he hopes not to have come off uncouth, but the onslaught of so many people already has him shelling off into himself.

“’m back from L.A., Payno. Didn’t you miss me?” his voice rises in indignance, arms thrown wide as his brow furrows.

Liam launches himself at Louis in response, laughing into the hug. It’s a wonder how far they’ve come since Niall introduced them. “Still bunking off work, eh?”

“Oi!” Louis pushes away from Liam, “The trip was paid for _by_ the company, thank you very much. I gave Zoe Sugg tickets to the Knicks game, by the way. Why don’t you call ole’ Zo up for a date, yeah?”

Liam knows he’s used up his daily quota of eye-rolls, but, “Shove off, Lou. ‘m not looking for a relationship, I’ve not even properly met her.” And on further thought, “hasn’t she been seeing someone for a while?”

“He’s got out-of-town plans or summat,” Louis shrugs, not bothering to explain why he would try to set Liam up as the mistress.

Louis is next beat out the platform by Andy. “You were right, Payne; Dilaurentis Diamonds is looking for a new ad agency, and Winston wants on top of that shit.”

Liam doesn’t care if he looks like a twat when he leans over, fists pressed just in front of his face in victory, mumbling to himself, “I _knew_ it, lads. I’ve got to get on this. Fuck – the Dilaurentis name is the face of the diamond industry. Christ, I want this, okay? When can I pitch?”

Long-time friend Andy, sturdy figure in Liam’s life, hesitates a smidge too long before confessing: “Winston already gave it to Pearson and Steele.”

Under ordinary circumstances Liam wouldn’t mind. He’d wallow a bit, maybe, but fair’s fair and all.

But these aren’t ordinary circumstances. Liam could use this business opportunity to move ahead in the advertising game, to prove that he’s something worth looking into. “No fucking way!” he throws his hand up only for it to find itself on his hip, feet burning a trail already as he melts to the spot.

“Ah, the cheats!” Niall exaggerates with a slice of his hand through the air.

“Niall,” Liam berates a bit half-ass.

Louis only encourages Niall with a laugh and noogie.

Andy shrugs, still leaned lazily against Liam’s doorframe. “It’s true that he’s a bit partial to pretty young things.”

“The ole’ scumbag!” Louis throws in from the sidelines of his scrap with Niall.

(Like a pesky itch in the back of his mind, Liam struggles not to settle Louis and Niall’s rambunctiousness, not to demand the space still and quiet before he continues a pertinent discussion on his career. But,)

Liam can’t even find the energy to scold, too used to Louis’s antics and too far in agreement anyway. Firmly, he pinches the bridge of his nose to relieve the building pressure in his head. “They’re at a meeting right now at Prestige. I’ve just got to get to Winston before they do.”

“Funky Buddha tonight. That’s where he’s meeting with them,” Andy informs.

A nod of his head and a moment to clear it later Liam is responding, “Okay, I’ll just show up tonight and steal the show.”

Louis scoffs, finally done with wrestling. “You can’t just show up with no angle, Liam.” The boy pulls on the lapel of his suit, and he’s back to business in the blink of an eye.

Exasperated and a bit desperate, Liam whines, “Well then what do _you_ suggest, Tommo?”

And it’s like Louis was only waiting for the go ahead, because a smirk jumps to his face as he cups one hand over his fist, leaning back on the balls of his feet. “I need to get to work. I can stop by Prestige on the way there. Maybe listen in a bit to what those girls have to say.”

In having known Louis four years already, Liam slits his eyes with a chary, “What’s in it for you?”

Most likely because of the time crunch, Louis doesn’t drag his answer out into a guessing game. “Zoe works there.”

“No, Louis,” Liam huffs, defeat in his tone, “I am _not_ going out with your best friend. It would just end badly, and you’d have my head. Plus, I’ve never even met her.”

“Oh, cheer up, mate,” Louis goes to pat Liam on the shoulder, clearly picking up on the fact that relationships are a sore subject. “I won’t chat you up to my _female_ best friend.”

And Liam knows he should question the emphasis on ‘female’, but his day is already jam-packed with happenings, and he’s really fucking drained. “Alright.”

With a soft smile, Louis nods his head, hands in his pockets. “I’ll be off now. I’ll meet you at Funky Buddha tonight, though, babe.”

“Don’t bother talking to them, Lou,” Liam starts, “They’ll know something’s up, and if Winston’s already on their side I’d at least like the element of surprise on mine before I crash their dinner tonight.”

Louis salutes Liam after a moment, a slight nod just for the two of them. “Aye, aye, captain.”

Liam offers an upturn of his lips as response, waving Louis out the door.

**

Luckily, Harry’s flat is just a few blocks from Prestige. And at ground level.

With a light rap on the front door there is no answer. After a beat and a careful ear, Zayn thuds his fist harder, a sturdy “Harry?” voiced for good measure.

About a minute passes with no sign of life, so Zayn promptly glances to his wrist, huffs because he’s never worn a fucking watch before in his life, and then proceeds to make his way to the side of his ( _former_ , he swears) best mate’s flat.

Zayn works to climb onto Harry’s fenced-in patio through the sparse hedges as gracefully as possible in his best slacks, and then he jiggles the side door open until the black hole that is Harry’s flat vacuums him in.

Morning light penetrates the space from the open door, and Zayn has to cover his eyes against the rectangular pocket of too-brightly lit carpet. Snipping out the source, Zayn curses sharply before fumbling to open the window blinds _slowly_. That only serves to cross Zayn’s eyes with the contrast between black and white prison bars projected against the room’s layout, though.

Drawing Harry’s cheap, sheer cotton curtains enables light filtration into a monochromatic scheme of gray all over the lounge. Nothing is too untidy – which is a plus – besides a throw pillow on the carpet and a few cabinets haphazardly wide open in the kitchenette.

Yet another routine Zayn has allowed to form in his life, next he taps into his sense of smell to assess the damage. Zayn nearly stumbles back as a scent wave of alcohol punches him in the gut, churning whatever food is left inside.

Deciding to allow air passage through his nose is never pleasant, but it has to be done, so Zayn maneuvers under the curtains and blinds to lift Harry’s window an inch just to dilute the aroma.

Zayn is almost sympathetic toward Harry’s predicament until his receptors hone in on the lingering smell of weed, which he’s sure Harry nicked from him at one point.

With a shallow huff, Zayn squares his shoulders and marches onward and so forth into Harry’s bedroom just past the t.v. and left.

After a stoic “Harry” and a louder “Wake up”, Zayn chucks a discarded pillow at the dirty mop that is Harry’s hair.

“Oof!” is emanated from what most would presume to be a dead body, and, slowly but surely, Harry begins to roll onto his back, elevating his upper body with an elbow to squint one eye open.

“You’re late.”

Harry promptly shoves his face back into his pillow at that, grumbling loudly.

Zayn switches on his feet, waits ten solid seconds before he reaches down for another pillow to peg at Harry’s head.

“Chill the fuck out, mate,” Harry intones with more malice than usual.

“It’s Wednesday. It’s 10:00 am. You’re making both of us late.”

_One, two, three –_

“It’s over, alright? Stephen broke it off last night,” Harry divulges, something in his disposition that of a hopeless, voice soft and a tad wobbly if Zayn were to thoroughly analyze.

Sighing, hesitant steps carry Zayn to Harry’s bed. Sitting down, he drags lazy fingers through Harry’s mane. And he truthfully doesn’t know quite how to go about cheering his mate up, but he hopes humor will suffice. “I’m not gunna let you lose your job on top of your dignity.”

A barely there chuckle is released before a “Shove off, you prick,” is groaned with a sturdy elbow to Zayn’s gut to reinforce the sentiment.

He knows Harry will have a chance to blubber over his lost relationship at some point, but right now they really _are_ going to be late for a staff meeting. “Up and at ‘em,” Zayn slaps Harry’s arse as he stands from the mattress, “Grab a quick shower and I’ll pick you out something nice.”

There’s no doubt a head rush accompanies the fashion Harry jumps up with. “Keep your filthy paws off my clothes.”

“Put some damned pants on and maybe I’ll take you seriously,” Zayn says, done with the day already.

Harry puts up minimal fight, a lack of banter that actually worries Zayn more than reassures. But at least he slams the bathroom door, which reaffirms that Harry isn’t beside himself enough to give up pestering Zayn.

Once the lad is in the shower, Zayn grabs out skinnies, booties, and a plain white blouse from Harry’s closet and sets the outfit on the bed.

Giving in to all of the world’s cruel vices, Zayn sets insta-coffee to brew while he steps onto the balcony to inhale a cigarette. It neutralizes the ache in his nerves, but he knows the speed walk to Prestige will be hell on his lungs.

It’s 10:20 am before Zayn is capping off a coffee-filled thermal, Harry is picking off a banana from his kitchen counter, and both are exiting the apartment in silence.

Spring in New York is no better than winter in the south, so both lads conserve energy (which translates to heat) by dismissing chat. (Or maybe they don’t talk because Zayn loathes mornings and Harry is always too beat up after a split to act his usual charismatic self.) And in any case, self-reflection is said to be crucial to development, both intellectual and emotional. (Although, Zayn presumes, these quiet times should probably be used to draw inspiration from the beauty of nature, of life instead of mentally damning nicotine to Hell, but –)

Zoe is waiting for them outside of Prestige with Harry’s tea, and as soon as they’re set to step inside Harry theorizes, “I know why it didn’t work out: I’m too ugly.”

For all her grace, Zoe just snorts as a scoffed “Fuck off” tumults over Zayn’s tongue.

“I’m serious,” the self-deemed leper continues, “I let my hair grow out too long, and now everyone thinks I’m ratchet.”

“Your hair looks perfectly fine to me,” Zoe admonishes with a ruffle to emphasize.

“Did you just say ‘ _ratchet_ ’, mate?” Zayn pinches the bridge of his nose as he shoulders through the company entrance.

“It’s true!” Harry exclaims to everyone in a ten foot radius, his grand entrance. “Also,” he adds lowly, “my thighs have gotten huge.”

Even though he knows that Harry’s tangents go on until the man himself sees fit, Zayn can’t help but to correct: “They’re _thick_ , Haz, which people _like_ currently.” He pauses a moment, eyebrows arcing, “Which you would think a fitness whiz such as yourself would be aware of.”

Harry only grumbles out discordant vowels as the troupe reaches their cubicles, Harry locking a stack of haphazard papers into his desk drawer before checking the time, 10:39 am.

“Nobody can sense my charm with this long hair,” Harry states, leaning against a cubicle divider to pick at his nails as if the conversation is of minimal importance.

“Do you _like_ your hair?” Zoe asks, concern writing her features, arms crossing to perch on the edge of Harry’s desk.

“Yes,” he doesn’t hesitate to answer.

“Well, then it doesn’t matter if anyone else cares for it or not. If you take pride in your appearance then everyone else will respect your charm,” Zayn rationalizes.

Harry smirks. “Easy for you to say, Zayner; you’re flawless.”

“He’s right, you know,” a light timbre voices, one Louis Tomlinson breaching the triangle they’ve made to shoot a grin at Zayn with a firm pat on his shoulder.

Zoe fails to hide her giddiness at seeing Louis behind a roll of her eyes, arms caged over her chest with a cocked hip. As soon as the Sports Illustrated editor has her bundled in his embrace with a sloppy kiss to her cheek she’s giggling up a storm, swatting him on the arm with, “I can’t believe you didn’t bring me a jar of sand from LA.”

Louis pivots, rearranging the triangle into a square as he points a thumb at Zoe to pull a ridiculous face for Zayn and Harry. “Girls and their souvenirs. Am I right?” He lifts his brow.

Zayn just chuckles, knowing mischief follows Louis Tomlinson and not feeling too keen on becoming an accomplice.

“Ahem,” Harry clears his throat, clearly disgruntled at the interruption.

A slick smirk twists Louis’s lips as he turns toward Harry. “You alright there, beautiful?”

Harry, for his part, huffs an indignant, “We were in the middle of a discussion.” His arms cross over his chest, but Zayn knows it’s more for affect than actual defensiveness.

“Which I backed you up on, pumpkin,” Louis shoots back, hands clasping behind his back.

(It’s all gratuitous banter, and, well –

They’ve been doing this for a while – dancing around each other. Louis has been steadfast in bedding Harry since Zoe acquainted everyone some odd months ago, but Zayn knows Louis would gladly wed Harry just as quickly if given the chance. Harry does his part fairly well to shut down Louis’s chat-ups, but Zayn has witnessed Harry preen just as Louis turns, and he knows Harry’s resolve chips away every time a nonsensical pet name falls past Louis’s lips.)

“Flawless, did you say?” Louis questions, rolling back on the balls of his feet as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

“No one is flawless,” Zayn mumbles, eyes searching outside of their bubble as if to find supporting evidence, “Everyone is problematic.”

“I feel like he was referencing your face, mate,” Louis smirks, “Not your character.” 

“What happened with Stephen, Haz?” Zayn grimaces, effectively changing the subject when Harry sighs out, pulling his hair into a knot in thought. He takes a slow drag of his tea as if to draw out the suspense, and Zayn almost wishes he hadn’t asked.

“Well,” Harry starts with a thumb and forefinger rubbing his lip ruddy, “We met at MVP two weekends ago, right?”

And Zayn catches Zoe’s eye so he can point at his non-existent watch. Because Harry’s stories are always terribly drawn out, and he’s sure they’ll be late if they don’t head for the conference room soon.

Harry doesn’t break his monologue on the way to the elevator: “… it was great the first few days. He could pull this wicked thing with his tongue – “

Zayn pulls this distorted noise at the back of his throat, “Please – not today, Haz.”

“No, no, I’d _love_ to hear about tongue tricks,” Louis voices, a smirk prominent as ever with a wink to Harry, a vulture rounding its prey.

“Oi, fuck off!” Harry retorts before continuing, “But then the next Wednesday it took him about three calls to answer –“

“ _Three_ calls?” Zoe fact-checks, wide eyes darting to Zayn.

And, yeah, Zayn is already starting to see how the relationship went sour.

“ – And five texts; Can you believe it?” Harry verifies as if Zoe is appalled that it took Stephen so long to answer and not because Harry reached out that often. “And when he finally replied he was giving me short answers, and he said he couldn’t meet me for coffee, but I saw him tweeting an hour later…” Harry trails off as a frown tugs his gaze down.

Zayn’s gut clenches up at Harry’s dejection. Instead of commenting, Zayn pushes the button for the elevator. He gives Harry time to sort through his thoughts, and apparently Zoe and Louis decide it best not to interject either, because they shuffle into the elevator in relative silence.

The quiet moment gone, Harry seems to perk up considerably as Zoe pushes for level five and he continues down his timeline. “But then I asked him out for last Friday. He said he had plans to try out Peaches with a few mates, so I tagged along.”

The look Zoe shoots Zayn this time communicates ‘ _Damn, we need to fix this._ ’ rather than _’Lol, is this guy serious?_ ’

Harry’s voice is lower as he finishes, “He didn’t dance with me any, and he got too hammered to go home with. I figured he’d call the next day, but then he didn’t.”

Zayn glances to Louis this time, and the lad looks angered with a taut jaw and stony stance. As much as he likes to tease Harry, Zayn knows Louis really does care about him, which is why he allows the game they’ve got going to play out.

“So, finally, I called last night, and, well…” Harry trails off.

The elevator doors open to the less-frazzled atmosphere of level five, but the vibes don’t do much to settle Zayn’s stomach. “I’m sorry, babe,” He rubs a hand down Harry’s back as he tries a smile.

Harry’s never had trouble pulling – especially when they were a bit younger – but he’s been trying to settle down recently, so the game has changed. Unfortunately, at 23 most people are still busy climbing their career ladder, chasing their dreams, experiencing as much as possible before settling down. Especially in New York.

Zayn – never much one for relationships – often feels like he’s living his due amount of heartbreaks vicariously through Harry. And he empathizes with Harry even further because of it even without the fact that Harry _deserves_ a happily ever after in consideration.

“He sounds like a fucking prick,” Louis spits, and Zayn is a bit startled by the vehemence, honestly.

Harry only shrugs, nonplussed by Louis’s tone. “I just don’t know what I did wrong is all.”

The walk through level five is fairly short, so Zoe sets a slow pace in what Zayn knows is an effort to cheer Harry up before their meeting.

“ _You_ didn’t do anything wrong, Harold,” Louis proclaims, “The guy was just a douchebag.”

Zoe cuts her eyes at Louis, and Zayn’s sure Louis feels the ice in her gaze with the way he shuts his mouth. “He probably just wasn’t ready for commitment, Haz,” Zo rectifies in a mothering tone as she places her hand at the bottom of his spine.

“I think he just didn’t want to commit to _me_ ,” Harry confesses as he takes another long sip of his tea.

“It’s not you, it’s him,” Zayn bites his tongue, winces because he’s an actual idiot. “It sounds like he isn’t the dating type. Anyone that did the things you did would garner the same reaction.”

Again, Zayn takes a moment to mentally kick himself because he should _not_ have phrased it that way.

They pass a conference in session quietly before Harry asks, “What do you mean ‘the things I did’?” Harry’s faux-defensive tone settles Zayn’s brewing stew.

Luckily, Zoe – ever better with words – picks up, “Well, when you tried to get ahold of him so often you probably came off as clingy. And you may or may not have hijacked a Boys Night Out when you went to the club,” she teases.

Thankfully, Harry takes to banter easily, so he’s chuckling as his gait picks up. “So you’re saying that with him being a fuckboy and me being a romantic he wouldn’t even have come around if I looked like Zayner?”

Zayn scowls just as Harry tosses a grin over his shoulder. “Looks aren’t everything, you know.”

“For most men it is, though,” Louis inputs, “At least, statistically, more so than women.”

“So are you saying everyone wants me?” Zayn smirks, trying for smug in hopes that his friends will want to shut his ego down and thereby end the angle on his attractiveness.

Because it seems his friends have a running joke on his good looks, on how he should use them to get ahead in his career. And it makes him fucking uncomfortable is what it does.

Louis doesn’t take the bait. “We’re saying with that smolder you’ve got going you could make an honest partner out of anyone of your choosing.”

Easily annoyed, Zayn finally snaps, “Why are you even here?” just as they arrive outside of their conference room.

The Sports Illustrated editor just flashes dazzling teeth because he’s won at ruffling Zayn’s feathers. “Simone loves me, and I figured it was time for a visit.”

——

Five minutes pass like five hours, and Zayn is already situated at the end of a muted sky blue, suede couch by the time his colleagues are instructed by their boss to take a seat. The sofas are arranged in a square with Simone in a lone armchair centered in one vertex.

The arrangement based on a week’s obsession of ‘harmonizing oneself with nature’, Zayn wonders idly if his boss even bothered to look into _feng shui_. Because she’s seated with her back to the door – a position considered weakening. He would find humor in the absurdity of it all if it wasn’t yet another example of making a mockery of culture.

His dozen colleagues quieten rather easily, and Zayn knows it’s due more out of fear than respect. Which is a bit disheartening for Simone as his superior, his own rank as subordinate, and the fate of Prestige.

With the mentality of a privileged princess and the authority of a queen, Zayn can’t help comparing Simone to Joffrey in Game of Thrones. While less sadistic and more… clueless, the fact of the matter remains that allegiance to Simone relies more on fear that she’s got a loose screw than actual loyalty.

She doesn’t seem to notice, though. Ignorance is bliss, he supposes.

“Vyvian, what do you have?” Simone starts with the younger reincarnation of herself. All of the sass, none of the sag.

The Vietnamese woman has become a smidge obsessed with plastic surgery over the years, and Zayn doesn’t care much for a butt lift anytime soon (Although it’s also a running joke among Harry and Zoe that he’s got no butt to lift anyway.), so he takes the time to stare out the window to his left.

The view of West 42nd Street is obstructed by their sister building mostly, but out of the corner of the window he gets a peek at the foot traffic. He’s trying to ward off the trepidation that comes along with a rejected proposal, that comes with trying to figure out what to do _after_ he’s been shut down. Because he put so much of himself into _this_ piece that he honestly hasn’t bothered brainstorming what to do next for the column.

Zayn tries catching Louis’s eye who’s leaned in a corner of the room, thinking that the man will at least serve as distraction with his mocking facials he’s known to pull, but –

“Zayn,” Simone nods to him with a wide smile, “what’s next for _How-To_?”

Three seconds to draw in a breath and straighten his spine, “I’ve got something a bit more cultured –“ he hears Louis snort at the pun and cuts his eyes at the man “– but I think it would be interesting to readers who are looking to do their part in appreciating different cultures as opposed to misappropriating them.”

“Too controversial,” Simone says as she turns to pounce on her next victim.

“Simone, with all due respect,” Zayn starts, “How is the issue controversial? It’s a social issue and –“

“We don’t do social issues, Zayn. We don’t do politics,” she undermines his proposal. “Prestige is fashion, trends, cosmetics, sex, etc. You’ve done fabulous with _How-To_ as of yet, but it isn’t a must-read. We want numbers, and we can’t afford to lose readers if they see something they don’t like. As soon as you make it a must-read, you’ll be granted wiggle room.”

Next to him, Zoe covertly presses a hand to his elbow, knowing Zayn can be a bit fiery. He digs his nails into his palm, ready to lecture. But she’s right: Prestige has always been airily avaricious, and he can’t change the core of the company. “Yes, Simone.”

And he thinks to be ashamed that he won’t stand up for his ideals, for a message that ought to be heard. But at the end of the day he needs a job in order to sustain himself. And he values the saying ‘help yourself first before you help the world’ in this case.

“Harry?” she moves on.

He looks up slowly from his hands clasped in his lap, obviously a bit startled at the sudden attention. “Erm –“

“He had a bit of a rough week, actually,” Zoe supplies with a gentle hand to Harry’s upper arm and a prim smile to Simone, “A messy breakup.”

“Oh!” the queen laments as she leans back and dramatizes a frown, “That’s just terrible.”

With the eager eyes and frothing mouths around the room, Zayn’s guess is that no one is too troubled by the prospect of a single Harry.

“Hey!” Simone chirps, always adequate in corralling attention, “Write about it.”

Harry’s brow wrinkles, elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward slightly. “I’m not quite sure how I’d make a story out of that as of present –“

“Oh,” she cuts him off, “ _completely_ understandable.” She takes a moment to sweep the room with her eyes, an over-excited puppy, before, “I’m sure someone in here would just _love_ to come up with an angle on Harry’s personal life.”

Zayn is just about to let out a disbelieving laugh at the _nerve_ of this woman when Louis voices, “That’d be me, actually,” as he lifts his finger in the air and makes his way to the meeting square.

Zayn actually _does_ scoff at that: “You don’t even go here.”

“So are you volunteering, Mr. Malik?” Louis smarts, eyebrows lifting in what Zayn knows is challenge.

“Oh, Louis,” Simone bats her eyes with a giggle, “You’re always making the scene.”

“Yes, I am,” Zayn nearly tramples Simone’s sentence, aware that it sounds like he’s answering Simone instead of Louis.

“Is that so, mate?” Louis is clearly amused now.

And it’s too late to backtrack, so, “It’s easy to meet someone and say you’ll get to know them past one date, but it seems a lot of people have trouble holding on to relationships past the first week or so.”

Zayn looks to Harry who is sitting with a blank stare and an open mouth. He’s looking for encouragement or _something_ , grappling for a direction because he has no clue where he’s going with this pitch.

Once it’s apparent Harry will be of no help, he nods to himself in efforts to psych himself up, licks his lips. “You choose a love interest based on first impressions, based on their looks, right? But after you’ve been able to appreciate genetics, most people lose interest because they’re not compatible.”

Zoe’s look is an amused _What the fuck are you going on about?_ , so Zayn ups his game, thriving on proving people wrong. “Take Harry for example. He’s a catch, yeah?” _God_ , he sounds like a car salesman, but the ladies and a few lads are nodding along anyway. “Suitors would be lining the block for a chance with him if they knew what a great guy he is, but, unfortunately, Harry has a tendency to pull classic mistakes that turn his dates off before they can really get to know him.”

Simone holds her hand up to weigh in, which is convenient, because Zayn needs time to regroup. “So you’re saying you want to do a _How-To_ on keeping a date interested?”

“Well, that’s a bit too broad, isn’t it?” Zayn decides, brow scrunching and both feet planting firmly on the floor as he leans elbows on knees. “I could do an article on the surefire ways to scare a romantic interest out of commitment, though.”

“So,” Louis jumps in, surprisingly interested in what’s come of his earlier teasing, “you’re going to do the opposite of a ‘dating _How-To_ ’?

Zayn gives a sharp nod, finalizing the plan without any consensus from his brain on the decision. “A ‘what _not_ to do’. I’ll start dating a guy, and then drive him away with the Universal Don’ts of Dating.”

“ _How To Lose A Guy In Ten Days_ ,” Simone voices, eyes to the ceiling in thought, “I love it.”

“Ten days?” Zayn queries.

“We go to press in eleven,” she answers, ending any negotiation.

Zoe, Louis, and Harry are all smirking at him as he settles back into the couch.

——

Zayn really just wants to go back to his flat and lay in bed for the rest of the day, but he owes his friends an explanation as to what came over him.

(That’s the story he’s going with – him being dignified enough to face his woes, but in actuality Louis sidles up to him before he can make a break for it.)

Exiting the conference room, Simone steals Louis for a chat while Harry and Zoe take up the rear of the group, heads close together in cahoots.

Sandwiched between the two parties all the way to the bottom floor, Zayn finally sees his break when Simone announces, “Warren Advertising,” as if summoning the two women near Prestige’s entrance.

Louis, for reasons unbeknownst, hastes a goodbye to Simone with some excuse of getting to work before waving at Zoe, Harry, and Zayn.

Zoe and Harry leave no room for escape as they close in on Zayn’s right side to form a semi-circle around Simone’s clientele, though.

Simone briefly shakes two hands, introducing the ladies as Delaney Pearson and Stacy Steele from Winston Advertising. Zayn vaguely notes that Steele is actually a bit of an inorganic orange hue.

Introductions follow: “Harry Styles, Fitness and Health; Zoe Sugg, Fashion and Trends; Zayn Malik, resident _How-To_.”

Instantly, a smile flirts its way to Pearson’s countenance, eyes zeroing in on Zayn. “Oh, yes,” she tilts her chin, “I’ve been reading your column, Zayn.”

The way his name rolls off her tongue has him fighting a shudder, face muscles working to remain stilled so he doesn’t wrinkle his nose in distaste of the woman’s advances. Zayn ends up nodding at her in acknowledgment.

Obviously ill-pleased, Pearson clasps her hands in front as to leverage her breasts. “What are you working on now, then? I’d love to give it a read,” she hardly refrains from a wink.

Simone, most likely itching to stand in the spotlight, jumps in at that. And for once Zayn is actually grateful. “Oh, you won’t believe this,” his boss starts, leaning forward as if a teenager sharing the latest gossip, “but Zayn is actually going to start dating a guy, and in ten days he’ll have him running for the hills.”

“Oh, and how do you plan to do that?” Pearson turns back to Zayn, “You look like you’ve got men running toward you, not away.”

“There’s a book on it, actually, by Michele Alexander titled _The Universal Don’ts of Dating_ ,” Zayn starts, using his trivia to brainstorm a plan of action, deciding on research methods for later in his flat, “It was written for a female audience, and it contains a bunch of stereotypical generalizations as to how to lose a guy.”

Shifting his gaze to the outside world, Zayn ponders a bit as he rubs his beard, lowers his voice with thought, “It’s actually quite sexist toward men by implying they’re all so shallow. And toward women for implying they should want to please men..”

The Winston Advertising ladies are looking at him oddly, Pearson slightly staggered and Steele just dumbstruck. And Zayn can almost feel himself physically retreating.

Simone draws their attention, hands struck once together as she passes off the panic in her eyes as excitement. “It will be _incredibly_ tantalizing,” she discloses in what reminds Zayn of a ‘ _Did everyone try the chicken? I thought the chicken was lovely_ ’ save.

Soon enough Simone is dismissing Zoe, Harry, and Zayn, prattling on about business prospects, so the three make their way to their cubicles, Harry ducking out for more sleep after agreeing to meet up at 7:00 for Funky Buddha.

Having had his mind otherwise occupied, Zayn’s hit with dejection once he takes his seat, defeated as he adds another one of his pieces into his ‘Future Articles’ file, which might as well be labeled ‘Rejected Articles’.

Zayn fleetingly wonders how long Zoe has been watching him, because as soon as his head falls into his hands she is at his side. “So I’ve got a bit of a surprise.”

He takes a deep breath in through his nose, out through his mouth before resting his chin on a hand and offering a half-smile for Zoe to go on.

“Louis gave me tickets for the Knicks versus Kings game. You’re coming with me.”

Zayn had heard the Knicks made it to the championship, but he doesn’t exactly care for basketball. “I don’t know, Zo.”

“It’ll be fun, Zayn,” she reasons, “and – if nothing else – we can just people watch.”

He waits a moment, thinks it over. He really doesn’t want to be bothered with it, but it might do to at least get his mind off of things. “Alright. But I’m holding onto the tickets.”

**

The lights are dimmed, and they’re doing nothing to ease Liam’s burgeoning claustrophobia. It’s pre-show jitters that leave him with sweaty palms and jumping knees. It’s the fact that he has the chance to make the biggest pitch of his life for his place of employment, and if he _does_ get the go ahead he _can’t_ fuck it up.

Liam tries to focus on anything other than his nerves, the music relatively low in the background, the seating area of Funky Buddha only slightly elevated from the dance floor and bar. It’s not a whole lot quieter on the upper level, but the sole light fixtures being those dangling over each individual table adds to the air of intimacy.

Despite his integral bias towards the establishment due to his involvement in creating their adverts, Liam truly does enjoy Funky Buddha, the atmosphere usually pleasant, cool. He supposes he’s the only one emitting negative vibes, so Liam sits up straighter and vows to get a grip on his confidence just as Louis enters his sight.

It only takes a discreet wave to get his friend’s attention, and then Liam is hugging Louis in greeting. “Alright?”

Louis laughs, pats Liam’s shoulder. “I’m good, mate. Couldn’t say the same for you though, yeah?”

Liam lets his face fall, hands wringing together. “Is it that obvious?”

“Nah, mate,” Louis shakes his head, seems honest enough. “You just get this look on your face sometimes.”

Liam nods, gives a shaky smile to Louis in efforts to appear appeased.

Another laugh is all he gets in return, Louis turning to scan Funky Buddha’s crowd before gesturing for Liam to sit back down. “You’ve got this, Liam. You could pitch to the Dilaurentis just as well as Lips & Hips if not better than. Plus, it was your tip that they were looking for a new ad agency, so you deserve it.”

Although brash at times and a bit snarky, gaining Louis’s vote speaks volumes to Liam, because the editor knows how to play his cards, and he never bets unless he knows he’ll win. 

Also, the inside joke of his tag team rivals has a giggle escaping, which relaxes his shoulders. (Delaney’s experience as a dancer has thickened her hips, and Stacy’s pout is substantial enough to put the Jenners’ to shame.)

He’s reasonably calmed and on his second glass of champagne by the time Winston, Pearson, and Steele arrive. Winston looks pleasantly surprised while Pearson shoots daggers at him with her eyes, Steele just slightly less annoyed.

With a nod from Louis, both men stand to greet the trio.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Winston shakes Liam’s hand, obviously waiting for a response.

“What are _you_ doing here?” is the first thing Pearson decides to spit at Louis, obviously ignoring Liam.

“Moral support.” Louis sneers before sitting back down heavily and gulping down his champagne.

Liam takes a breath. “It was my tip that the Dilaurentis were looking for a new firm. I deserve to be here. I made the first move in following Dilaurentis business plans, so now I’m here to secure that Winston Advertising will be working with them.”

A tilt of the chin. “Well, as much as it’s nice to see you, Liam,” Winston takes a seat as well, Liam, Pearson, and Steele following, “these women have more experience in the jewelry aspect of advertising. Dilaurentis would be our biggest account as to date, and it would be a hell of a statement to gain them.”

“Yes, sir,” Liam nods, nerves slipping away as he morphs into business mode. “I’ve done my research, and Dilaurentis Diamonds is annual advertising billings of 50 to 60 million dollars that I believe I’ll be able to procure to our agency.”

Liam glances to Pearson and Steele, Pearson burning his crops with the fire in her eyes. But Winston has his head tilted while he drapes a cloth napkin in his lap.

Known for low-key sexism and uncreative ideas, the top of the company was born into the position instead of having earned the spot. Liam’s learned in his six years with Winston Advertising to suck up to the boss just enough to gain momentum, riding the wave of success safely back to shore. When to let the sharks graze and when to let his competitors crash in a too-big wave. It’s strategy and it’s intuition, and Liam is proud to say he’s gotten himself thus far in the game.

Swallowing, Liam begins his mini pitch: “The Diamond Industry focuses on women. It says that _she_ ’s got to have the perfect ring from _him_. But what happens when women stop buying into the Hollywood narrative that they have to have men to make their dreams come true? What if women just want to treat themselves every once in a while? _Or_ ,” Liam emphasizes as he gets to the crux of his spiel, fingers interlocked over the table as he tilts his chin down to stare at Winston, “What if men want diamonds too? They say a diamond is forever; we say a diamond is for everyone.”

Winston lets half of his mouth curl into a smile as he folds his arms over his chest and leans back. “Continue.”

“Objection,” Pearson cuts in. “’A Diamond Is for Everyone’ says that diamonds are in supply, and if the supply is so vast, where is the demand? Besides,” she digresses with a smirk and a rigid back, “Since when do you know anything about women? Or men for that matter?”

Liam fights to leave his eyes unrolled. It’s just like Delaney Pearson to try and hit a low blow, and it’s just like Delaney Pearson to miss by a long shot.

“First of all, I _am_ a man, Delaney,” he disparages.

But the woman is ignoring him in favor of heading her own pitch. “Diamonds equate to status. When you give a woman status she feels empowered and sexy. What better way to make a woman fall in love?” She grins, repositions her shoulders as if she’s just won.

“Why does it have to be about a man making a woman fall in love with him? Diamonds may represent status and everlasting love, but just gifting jewelry won’t _make_ anyone fall in love.” Liam glances to Louis for support and gets a ponderous look in return, so he continues before either Pearson or Steele can work a new angle. “Gifting a diamond is merely an expression of love that is already there, and a woman in love is already empowered. Diamonds represent love, not create it.”

“I beg to differ, Payne,” Steele argues. “People fall in love with status, wealth, and power every day.”

Liam sees Louis shrug out of the corner of his eye. Winston seems intrigued by what’s been said so far as not to comment, so Liam sighs before, “I’m not talking about sugardaddy love. Yes, diamonds can create an illusion of love, but it’s just that – an illusion. It’s not real. And what do people do when they realize something isn’t real? They don’t buy it.”

“Once again,” Pearson’s tone shifts deeper, and Liam half expects her hand to slam down on the table, “what do you know about real love?”

 _Once again_ , Liam thinks mockingly, Pearson swings and misses on personal hits. “Look, Delaney; I’m trying to keep this professional. Just because ‘real love’ is foreign to you doesn’t mean it’s not, in fact, _real_. I know you don’t like me because I swerved on you, but I think it’s really time to grow up.”

“Oh,” Pearson leans back with wide eyes and an open mouth, “so you’re saying you’re just the catch of the party? That everybody wants you?”

And Liam’s mind is blown, honestly. He is completely baffled as to how the woman in front of him has come to that conclusion based on what he’s said up until now. Liam looks to his best mate in a last ditch effort to find any sort of reason to Pearson’s response, but what he gets instead is a calm Louis looking straight at Pearson. “Well, it’s not untrue.”

In a moment of clarity Liam realizes he’s most likely giving Delaney just what she wants by not being able to come up with a proper response. She wants him to crash and burn in front of Winston, to lose his cool by either getting angry or dumbstruck. She’s trying to prove he’s not an adequate businessman in selling himself or his product.

Masking his emotions, screening irrational thoughts, Liam bites right back: “Selling myself gets me one step closer to selling my product, doesn’t it? I suppose that’s why my success in pitching is so rampant.”

His slick grin has Pearson epitomizing the saying ‘if looks could kill’. Because she’s never taken well to losing, or at least being evenly matched. (Which is probably why she chose to team up with Stacy Steele whose outshining quality is greed alongside a blank personality.)

(Which, in hindsight, is probably why she tried to latch onto Liam as soon as he proved himself groomed for the top of the company. Keep your enemies close and all.)

“That’s very true,” Winston finally speaks up, “It’s much easier to sell something when your buyer loves you. They almost don’t even care for the product once they’re sold on the seller.”

Liam is formulating his next point when he notices Pearson’s gaze sweeping the crowd on the lower level, honing in on something before she looks to Liam. There’s a glint in her eyes, but otherwise her expression is set for poker.

“I’d like to see you in action, Payne.” She’s solid and she’s still. This is no longer Pearson testing out Achilles’ Heels. This is Pearson propositioning all she’s got. _This_ is Pearson in business mode. “If you’re able to make a man fall in love with you by the Astor Museum party, then I’ll let you pitch to the Dilaurentis.”

Liam’s first instinct is to question Pearson as to why she thinks she has final say in who gets the Diamond account, but then Winston is slow clapping it out. “Now _that_ is an interesting proposition.” He straightens his tie a bit. “Either one of you I deem fit for the Dilaurentis. Now, my first choice was Pearson and Steele, but you, Liam, have drive.”

His second thought is: “You mean the party we’re cohosting for the Dilaurentis in just over a week?”

Pearson smiles, nods, “Yes. Do you think you’re _that_ alluring?”

“It’s a challenge I won’t lose,” Liam’s narrowed eyes answer, but – “Why a man?”

Pearson’s smile slides into a smirk at that. “We all know that ladies are compelled by you, but I’ve yet to hear of your male escapades. That would be the true feat.”

And Liam wavers at that. Because, well –

“I’d like to have a word with Liam, yes?” Louis stands abruptly, cutting the surmounting tension that in all honesty may only be apparent to Liam’s rigged subconscious.

Pearson takes a moment, waves her hand in agreement, but Louis doesn’t see it because he’s already gripping Liam’s bicep and dragging him away from the table. “Are you sure about this, mate?” Louis asks just meters away from their table, up against a wall behind the lower squared off bar.

Liam’s heart drops at his associate’s lack of confidence. His hands begin wringing again, voice small. “Do you not think I could? Fuck, a woman has never fallen in love with me, much less a man, so maybe –“

“That’s not what I meant, Liam,” Louis cuts him off lest Liam continue rambling to the point of defeat. “ _I_ know you have men tripping all over themselves to get to you, but unless you realize that you’ll blow your chance with any of them.”

Already in a negative headspace, Liam continues his downward spiral with, “All of my het relationships have gone to shit, Louis, so how in the hell would I –“

“ _Exactly_ ,” Louis places his hands on Liam’s shoulders, “And it’s to no fault of your own. Maybe it’s your subconscious telling you that you should be with a man instead.”

Liam scoffs, waits for Louis to smirk or cuff his shoulder, but the man shows no signs of foolery. “That’s ridiculous.”

Sighing, Louis squeezes the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes as his free hand hikes up his suit jacket as it grasps his hip. “Look, Liam: I was with you all through high school. I watched girls fawn over you while we walked down the halls. But you never noticed them because _you_ were too busy salivating over random blokes.” He punctures a meaningful look to Liam that has Liam blushing. “The reason your relationships with women never last is because you’re never interested in them, and once they realize you’re not in it they split.”

“But men are so much harder to chat up!” is the only thing Liam can think to proffer, anxiety setting in at what he’s gotten himself into.

“If you’re not able to sell yourself to men, how are you planning on selling diamonds to them?” Louis quirks a brow. “Besides, don’t you know there’s no fun in it if there’s no challenge?”

Above all else, it’s the harsh angle of Louis’s highlighted face that grounds Liam, reminds him that there is an actual business deal on the line. A deal that – if handled well enough – could propel Liam into the respects he craves.

“You’re right,” Liam steels his jaw, “I can do this.”

Louis follows Liam stoically, silently back to the table after encouraging with a nod.

Liam waits until expectant eyes are back on him to speak. “Alright, I’m game,” he tells Pearson with determination, skirts his eyes over Steele and Winston.

A slow smile smears over Pearson’s face. “One more thing,” Pearson adds as if she’s already won, “I get to choose someone from this bar for you.”

Liam’s smart enough to know she’s playing the upper hand, but what exactly it is he doesn’t know. “Fine.”

All five of them take a moment to scan Funky Buddha, but Liam’s more freaking out internally than anything else. Because as confident as he is in his chosen career, he’s always been shite at dating. The reason doesn’t necessarily matter when the point stands that he’s no good romantically.

And to top off his own drowning in personal insecurities, Pearson gestures toward a man in the middle of the lower level that has Liam losing oxygen. Dark hair and a leather jacket, the chosen one is laughing with a man and a woman as his face scrunches breathtakingly. Greek God beautiful with an aura of confidence, composure, Liam can already tell five seconds in that the man is out of his league.

So Liam swallows the last of his champagne, sets his flute down with a _clack_. Because half of gaining influence is making people believe you already have power. And he can’t turn back now. “Deal.”

**

Funky Buddha is one of the classier bars located in Manhattan, and Zayn can appreciate that greatly since he’d like to pull a man that won’t drink himself to sleep every night or try some illicit game of stalking once the dating ends however it may.

The only downside to the establishment is that it hosts quite a few exclusive date nights, which Zayn finds out when the man he’s chatting with introduces his wife at her return from the restroom.

Excusing himself awkwardly, Zayn is on his way to regroup with Harry and Zoe when he’s intercepted by a solid body, literally stumbling backward with the rough impact, a caramelized birthmark to the neck right in his line of vision momentarily intriguing him until he refocuses, ready to excuse the man that ran into him.

What he’s met with instead isn’t a cocky demeanor and harsh cologne or a drunken stumbler, though. There’s a hearty blush over full cheeks, his attacker avoiding eye contact, exclaiming, “Sorry! My fault; I didn’t mean to jar you, there.”

The first thing that catches Zayn’s attention is the west-midlands accent. A classic Brit.

Zayn then takes a few seconds to do inventory on the man in front of him. With a tartan button-up framing a white undershirt, the lad looks proper fit at least. And his thick watch spells out money (not that Zayn’s interested in that aspect, though). In all honesty, Birthmark looks to be one of those sporty lads back in school that always deemed themselves the shit, and Zayn’s never been attracted to that sort.

But this lad is bumbling up a storm, and Zayn’s voice is a lot more collected than he expects out of his haze of intrigue. “Suppose that’s alright, then.”

Bumbler finally glances up abashedly, and Zayn is lost for a second on bushy eyebrows and ruddy, bitten lips. “I just wanted to have a chat with you, and now I’ve done myself a bit of a fool,” he grumbles, toeing the floor like a child – an act Zayn finds quite endearing on the grown man.

Tilting his head, Zayn can’t help but find amusement in the boy’s rush of words. So he offers his right hand. “Zayn Malik.”

Further, he presumes that his converser is adept in business with the way the man sobers up at the formality, sturdies a shake to Zayn’s hand with a practiced smile. “Liam Payne.”

“And where exactly are you hoping this chat will lead?” Zayn raises an eyebrow, cuts right to the point because he needs to find a suitor soon.

“You asking implies you’ve got standards, so am I wrong in suggesting we continue it over a meal?” Liam sports a crooked grin, voice unwavering but eyes timid.

Zayn’ll give him this: Liam Payne recovers quickly from fumbles. He’d give him more than that since the response actually impresses him, but, alas, Zayn’s not in the position to leverage the upper hand since he’s got a column to write. “Your suggestion implies you’d have no problem paying,” Zayn leans back slightly, stuffs a hand in his pocket with a mirrored sly smirk.

Liam’s laugh catches Zayn off guard, honestly. It’s a chime of bells if he’s ever heard some, eyes scrunching up as his lovely flush returns. “I guess that’ll be based off of how the chat ends, won’t it?”

Still a bit stuck on Liam’s shy introduction, Zayn can’t help but roll his eyes playfully with, “Alright, alright. Lead the way, Bumblebee.”

Predictably, Liam ducks his chin at the pet name, hand coming up to cup the back of his neck. “Are you set to go then? Have you got anyone to see off?”

Zayn’s a bit ashamed to say he’d almost forgotten his friends, but when he looks around he can see neither Harry nor Zoe. “I’ll just text them,” he shrugs.

Liam nods at that, offering a small smile before promptly turning around and making his way to the exit.

The chilled evening air clears Zayn’s head, allows him to begin formulating a plan of action, of how best to hook Liam before dropping him, but then the lad is showing him to a sleek Ducati, and, yeah – Zayn was right about Mr. Payne having money.

“Woke up in a new Ducati?” is all Zayn allows, tipping back on his heels with his hands in his pockets and brow high.

“Okay,” Liam draws out, offering a helmet to Zayn with a smirk, “clever.”

“You sure I don’t have to sign a prenup to ride this thing? Maybe a waiver in case of damage?” Zayn half jokes as he fingers the helmet in his hands.

Liam’s perched leisurely against his motorcycle, amusement dancing across his features. “How hard are you planning to ride then?”

The innuendo isn’t lost on Zayn, and neither is the flush that storms the very peak of his cheeks. And he can’t decide if he’s more mortified that he’s got no quip soon enough or that he so easily lets himself be drawn in the V of Liam’s legs so the man can settle the helmet to his head.

“That’s it,” Liam’s voice is soft, coaxing as Zayn is forced to lift his head with the buckle fastened to his jaw. Zayn would swear to a gentle finger tracing the apple of his cheek, but all too swiftly Liam is straddling his motorcycle, speaking over his shoulder, “I must say you look quite less intimidating in the goofy helmet.”

Zayn doesn’t have many reserves in climbing onto the bike, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t take his sweet ass time in getting situated, lightly gripping Liam’s waist. “It’s not goofy,” is the first thing out of Zayn’s mouth, quite petulant.

Liam’s laugh rumbles through his chest. “My mate Louis got it for me precisely _because_ he thought it was funny-looking.” The quieter, “But I must say you pull it off well,” is nearly lost in the start-up of the engine, Liam revving just for show.

The fluorescent lights of traffic flow by relatively easily as Zayn rolls his eyes, wraps his arms all the way around Liam’s middle because, despite his joking, it’s known that there’s no seatbelt on a motorcycle. “Alright, Bumblebee,” he starts, “I’m getting hungry.”

——

They end up at a high-end restaurant Zayn is loath to admit he can’t pronounce at first glance. Sushi Nakazawa is spelled out on an awning, the whole establishment rather undersized compared to the number it appears to hold on the inside. It’s cleanly contemporary, and the fact that Zayn has never graced the site just further goes to show its expense is above a medial paygrade.

But Liam seems oblivious as ever to the fact that the restaurant is packed as he settles the bike across the street, humming to himself as he easily steadies the teeter with his feet.

“Um,” Zayn starts rather eloquently, “Shouldn’t we need reservations?” He hasn’t gotten off the bike even though he’s sure that’s what his acquaintance is waiting on.

Liam merely shrugs, taps on Zayn’s arm around his waist to let him know he’s okay to let go. “I’ve done business with the owners. They quite like me, I must say,” he tosses a silly wink over his shoulder, “and I’ve got one no-reservations night to spend.”

Staring fear in the eye, as it turns out, is easier said than done. Which is ridiculous to think, because Zayn has been turned down an article quite a many times, mocked for his culture too often to count, and punched in the gut at least a five finger-count for his preferences. This, though, is a new breed of anxiety: it’s a combination of all of his stressors that revolve around not being well-off enough to impress someone and likely failing an assignment because of it.

He’s about to say something, he swears it, but then Liam is propping up the Ducati while Zayn is still on, easily unwrapping the tight lock of fingers around his waist to prompt Zayn in getting off.

Liam sits sidesaddle on his motorcycle once again, his widened stance creating a snug cocoon for Zayn as he subconsciously allows his suitor to de-helmet him, eyes taking in the vibrancy of the location.

Zayn runs his hand through his flattened hair, the knowledge of it being fucked only adding to his hindrances in feeling comfortable.

Heavy fingers on his jaw draw Zayn’s gaze, Liam smiling warmly with, “Where’d you go, babe?”

And somewhere in the back of his mind he figures he should respond to his date, but the sturdy grip steadies his whirling thoughts, and sinking into the caress while studying Liam’s shirt is deemed a lot more pleasant than trying to put his thoughts into a logical sentence.

“This is alright, isn’t it?” Liam worries, unencumbered fingers fiddling with his keys as he glances around the perimeter instead of keeping Zayn’s gaze. “I can take you somewhere else, Zayn, it’s just that I wanted to make it nice for us, and –“

The rambling shocks Zayn out of his daze, reminds him that this is business, and he can’t do with actually taking a liking to the man. So he straightens, backing away to let the night air chill the skin that was once warm against the cup of Liam’s palm and the muscle of his thighs. “I don’t know if I’m dressed for it,” is what comes out of his mouth a bit sharply.

If Mr. Payne is taken aback at all in the change of demeanor then he hides it well. “You look lovely, Zayn,” he assures, but actions speak louder than words, and Liam buttoning up his own dress shirt to appear smarter counteracts his attempt at reasoning.

Zayn, through with appearing inadequate to the situation, levels a scowl to Liam as if to communicate that he’s not so easily won over, especially with such weak argument.

Instead of becoming annoyed, Liam sports an adorable nose-scrunch, seemingly formulating some type of solution as he tilts his head. A flash of a grin reveals pearly teeth not five seconds later. Smugness, as it turns out, is actually quite becoming on Mr. Payne’s features. “I’ve just the thing,” he finalizes with a pivot to rifle through the compartment under his seat.

Zayn is promptly adorned in a comfy red, yellow, and navy tartan scarf that – matches Liam’s shirt? And, “Is this Alexander McQueen?” He knows his tone is hushed with veneration, and he mentally kicks himself for it.

His consort has the decency to blush, smile shy but breathtaking as ever with the combination of a tucked chin, pride and uncertainty warring each other. “Gift from the label.”

Rubbing the smooth fabric between his fingers, Zayn is slightly awed by the connections Liam Payne appears to have and mildly concerned because – “No, Liam, I’m bound to stain this or summat.”

But Liam is shaking his head, eyes decidedly happy as he waves Zayn’s response off. “I must say you pull it off better. A bit like a starving artist”

As stubborn as Liam comes off, it’s of noble intent, so Zayn allows the borrow. And he’s sure he looks a fool as he primps himself, arranging the accessory nicely over his leather jacket, but Liam chooses to palm the bottom of his spine, lead him forward instead of commenting further.

——

Twenty minutes later, Zayn actually finds himself enjoying the date despite his uneasiness toward his correct assumptions of the restaurant being a bit cost-heavy. Luckily, their timing is rather perfect seeing as it doesn’t interfere with anyone else’s reservations.

They’re nestled in the back left corner of Sushi Nakazawa, the dining area well-lit and inviting laughter soft from all angles, decorative plates drawing Zayn’s artistic interest. He’s been idly sipping on his water in between tentative tastes of whatever Riesling wine Liam ordered.

(Because –

“I’m not quite sure what to get here, actually,” Liam confesses, “but I feel like ordering the spicy tuna roll would be a good bet.”

And –

“Oh, you enjoy spicy?” Liam seems genuinely intrigued. “Well that settles it, then, because I’ve caught word that an off-dry Riesling goes quite well with the spicy tuna.”)

The deliverance of the house soup sidelines small talk, but after Zayn’s mouth is done watering over a blend of spices he can’t dream to name, he gets down to business with a napkin to his mouth, a lick over his teeth. “So, what do you do for a living, Mr. Payne?”

Liam smirks at Zayn, a glint in his eye playful enough to compel an onslaught of heat to Zayn’s face, which was definitely _not_ his plan. (And Zayn can’t decide if he’s charmed more by the bumbling bumblebee side of the man or by his self-assured wit. Or, most likely, it’s the fact that he switches on the dime between the two based on Zayn’s influence.)

“I’m an advertising executive,” Liam answers, maintaining easy eye contact in between a swallow of his wine. “I work mostly with alcoholic beverages and sports equipment companies for the time being, but I’m planning on breaking into the diamond industry.”

 _That definitely explains his wealth_ , Zayn can’t help but connect dots in his brain as he lowers his eyes to study his soup. “And how long have you been in the business?”

When Zayn glances back up Liam is taking a spoonful of his own course, patting his cloth napkin to the corner of his mouth before looking out the window to presumably corral numbers. “I’ll hit twenty-seven in a few months, so I guess I’ve been at it for around six years.” He nods his head. “And you?”

“Majored in journalism and minored in visual arts,” Zayn offers, ticking off what needs to be introduced while he holds his elbows and props at the edge of the table. After a second of deliberation, Zayn decides it’s probably in his best interest to smudge his work details for obvious reasons. But, “I turned twenty-four in January, and I write for Prestige.”

Liam allows himself to appear impressed, and Zayn is probably a bit too pleased by that. “I’ve heard good things about Prestige as of late. Maybe I’ll have to judge your pieces myself,” he winks.

Heart rate picking up, Zayn is seized with surging panic, his face likely an open book if Liam’s quick game change of “I’m just kidding, Zayn. Are you liking work, then?” is anything to judge by.

Zayn tries to maintain a low-decibel sigh, relieved to steer clear of the topic of Prestige yet burdened by his sluggish career development.

Inspiringly adept in small talk, Liam senses the aversion anyway and questions accordingly: “Have I said something?”

Instead of pressing his thumb to Liam’s forehead to smooth the distress in his brow, Zayn offers a soft half-smile and cups his chin, stares out the window. “My boss is a bit… difficult,” he settles on, shrugging as he looks back to Liam.

“Would it help if I told you that my boss is a bit of an entitled asshole?” Liam tries, miming Zayn in leaning forward on his elbow.

Zayn huffs a dry laugh, blinks lazily because soup always seems to make him drowsy. “If I play it her way for a while I’ll eventually be able to branch into topics I actually care about, so there’s that.”

“Oh? And what would those topics be?” Liam tilts his head yet again, dark eyes compelling. And there’s a tease in his tone that has Zayn on the defense, but, at the same time, Liam truly does appear intrigued, earnest in owning his desire to know Zayn.

And Zayn will forever thank their waiter for choosing this moment to interrupt their conversation, sushi roll bedazzled as it creates a wake between the two bodies of more than a foot. Because he needs to stay on track. He needs to hook Liam, but he can’t afford to go down with the sinker.

Once the waiter is gone Zayn holds off on his response until Liam’s got a few pieces of sushi on his plate. “We’ll see if you stick around long enough to find out.”

——

“Would you fuck on the first date?”

No pretenses, no time for greeting. Because the cheque only takes so long to pay, and a restroom so fanciful only remains vacant for so long.

“ _What?_ ” Harry rushes, voice overpowered by the chatter and music from Funky Buddha, which Zayn assumes his friends are still occupying.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Zayn sighs out as he stares himself in the mirror, the dim lighting of the restaurant’s lavatory almost sinister with its yellow tint. He needs a game plan, and he’s honestly not sure if it should start with him seducing Liam or remaining chaste for now.

Because he doesn’t _do_ this, and the inexperienced indecision tossing around inside his brain is making his fingers dance apprehensively, blood pressure surely rising.

“I’m with Liam. Dinner is almost over, and I have no clue if I should sleep with him or not.” When Zayn feels trapped he gets snappish, and he’s quite pleased with himself that he’s able to get that clear of an informative sentence across the tinny service of his phone.

“Who’s Liam? You left?” Harry slurs slightly, mind sounding otherwise occupied.

And _fuck_ : Zayn never texted Harry and Zo to let them know he found a guy. He turns on a flow of water from the sink just to give himself a bit of background noise, and then he runs his hand under it, dabs it over his eyes.

Before he can answer, there’s a bit of commotion on the line, and then Zoe begins rambling: “We ran into Louis, and he said he saw you leave. Did you find a guy? What’s he like? Where’d you go?”

“ _He went to fuck him_!” Harry informs a bit crudely in the background.

Zayn cuts off the loud cackling in his ear abruptly, pushing air out through his nose in efforts to compose himself. Efficiently, he runs through possible scenarios in his mind on how best to make Liam tick. On the presumption that this is more a one night stand than anything, Zayn mentally prepares himself to put out tonight and then badger Liam for as long as it takes to be formally dumped.

He types a relatively brief description of Liam out to his group message with Zoe and Harry:

> Name: Liam Payne  
> Age: 26  
> Occupation: Advertising Executive  
> Interests: Probably long walks on the beach. Maybe pina coladas.

  
Channeling his energy into momentum to get this show on the road, Zayn pushes off of the restroom counter and out into the hallway, peeking around the corner to see if the coast is clear, because – just for shits and giggles – he snaps a shot of Liam to tack onto his text profile. The man looks professional in his attire – untouchable but boyish in his hunched posture and relaxed countenance, fuzzy eyebrows tugging a quirk to Zayn’s lips.

A pause to fall into character later Zayn is making his way back to Liam, shoulders back and demeanor nonchalant. Liam is nevertheless pleased though, small smile genuine as he leads Zayn to the exit with a palm to his spine.

They’re intercepted before they can actually exit, though, and Zayn realizes just how out of his element he is upon having to smile politely – albeit shyly – at a business associate or summat of Liam’s. Tuck his chin and angle himself behind Liam awkwardly is all Zayn does until about a minute in of conversing when Liam’s heavy paw soothes his hip, helps Zayn to curl into Liam’s side with eased exhales.

“Sorry, little bird,” Liam hushes to Zayn’s ear when he finally finds an exit in the conversation, “Networking and such.”

Not knowing where it came from, Zayn’s a bit shocked by the pet name, which only further prompts Zayn’s reticence. And even the nipping wind outside does little to focus him, but at least his coloration can be blamed on the weather.

“Should we ring you a cab? Or I could drive you home, maybe?” Liam offers with a soft smile and hands stuffed in his pockets.

Figuring coy will work best in his current predicament, Zayn eases closer to Liam, titling his head to gaze through his lashes as he softens, “ _Or_ you could show me your place.”

Liam smirks at that, but it’s more playful than provocative. “And what would we do there?”

Zayn presses flush to Liam, snuggles into the crook of his neck so as to roll his eyes discreetly, wanting to get on with the night already. Thick fingers curve themselves around Zayn’s waist – an embrace he only sinks further into with a delicate sigh.

“Hmm?” Liam prompts Zayn, obviously looking for a fight.

“Warm up,” is what Zayn mutters, because it’s not untrue, and it’s the first thing that comes to mind as he runs his ice-tipped nose down Liam’s neck, grips into his shirt tighter with gentled lips a heated apology to the trail.

“Zayn…” Liam cautions.

But Zayn feels a shiver runs down Liam’s spine, giddiness welling up inside himself at the slight thrill, and he uses the adrenaline to snake his tongue out over Liam’s supple skin, sucks lightly over his chosen spot.

“ _Zayn_ ,” Liam emphasizes, apparently to deaf ears.

The temperature only drowsing Zayn further, he doesn’t quite register the fact that he’s fashioning a mark until he draws back slightly after a last lave of his tongue. Pleased, he nuzzles closer to place a peck to the love-bite, but then –

“It’s a school night f’me, babe,” Liam sighs, seemingly genuinely reluctant to wiggle space between the two.

Inexplicably put off by losing the stretch of skin, Zayn crosses his arms, brows drooping to smart “Well this arse is about to take off for summer, so it’s now or never.”

Taken aback, Liam quickly recovers, features relaxing and steadying all at once as he draws Zayn closer, leans back on his bike like he’s so fond of. “Please don’t grow cross with me, little bird,” Liam grips Zayn’s chin firmly, “I’d love to see you again, but I’ve got a big pitch that needs buffing tomorrow.”

Zayn only grumbles in response, increasingly embarrassed by his prior antics now that the spaced proximity of _Liam_ is less intoxicating. One arm winds itself around his waist while the other cups his cheek, and he knows his face is flushing.

“None of that, now,” Liam ascertains, assumedly speaking on Zayn’s closing off. “What’ve you got going on tomorrow night?”

Good. Something to focus on. Zayn’s about to tell him _nothing_ , because his schedule is extremely fluid, but then he remembers telling Zoe he’d go to the game with her, and he really can’t help the groan that lets out. “I’ve got a game to catch,” he verbalizes, features scrunching slightly at the distaste.

Liam loosens his grip, trails his hands down to Zayn’s thighs to rest against his own legs where Zayn is stood. “And what game is that?”

“Knicks.”

Liam’s face lights up at that, a child on Christmas. “That’s sick, mate!”

A bit startled by Liam’s enthusiasm and a lot irked at having to suffer alone, Zayn just argues, “Not really, _bro_. Neither me nor my friend want to go.”

“Well I’d enjoy it quite well,” Liam suffices. “If your friend doesn’t feel up to accompanying you, let me know,” he finishes, cheeky smile prominent.

“Maybe I’ll ask her about it in the morning. Too bad you’re not giving me much to remember, though,” Zayn sneers, hands dropping dangerously close to Liam’s crotch in reference.

Liam breaths out harshly, steels his jaw, and Zayn can’t help the hitch in his breathing when Liam’s warm paws grip just below his arse, butterflies moshing in his stomach. “I’ll be so good to you when the timing’s right, little bird, but I don’t want complaints on scheduling I can’t fix.”

A light smack on his arse has Zayn yipping embarrassingly, automatically cocooning back into Liam’s neck. He inhales Liam’s scent of pine and citrus, calms himself to nod into his neck.

The goofy helmet is being settled on Zayn’s head after Liam presses a chaste kiss to his jaw, no more words exchanged between the two besides Zayn mumbling his address.

——

Despite having only ridden for five minutes, and despite tucking his face into Liam’s shoulder, Zayn’s skin is tingling from the wind, and he can feel his eyes watering as Liam settles his feet to the street outside Zayn’s apartment.

“Beautiful,” Liam murmurs, thumbs Zayn’s cheek once he’s off of the motorcycle.

And he doesn’t exactly plan it, but – “This is what I’d look like with your cock down my throat.”

More amused than anything, Liam’s eyes widen as he purses his lips. “ _Filthy_ mouth, little bird.” His thumb prods Zayn’s lower lip before he pulls back, suddenly business. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

Zayn sanctions, rattles off his phone number as he unfastens his helmet.

Just before he turns away, though, Liam catches his chin, holds it steady between forefinger and thumb, tilts it up slightly. His eyes are soft even with a leveled stare, tone sure. “Do I get a kiss?”

And Zayn realizes then what exactly gets him going about Liam. It’s the way he’s so confident, knows what he’s doing and isn’t ashamed about it. And Zayn can’t afford to get caught up in the aftermath of Liam Payne. So he reaches to cup the man’s neck, draws close as if to comply just to press into his hickey roughly before turning away without another glance, Liam’s gasp music to his ears.

| _Thursday_ |

Perfecting the Diamond Pitch, as it turns out, is not top priority to Niall so much as finding out about _how_ Liam got the go ahead.

“For the last time, Niall,” Liam finalizes: “I am not sleeping my way to the top.”

Not for the first time, Liam is grateful that Winston Advertising has a relatively chill atmosphere – one that allows him to close his office door with no second glance. (Which he did as soon as he clocked in, eyeing Niall’s jumpy knee and wild eyes as indication of his animation waiting to break loose.)

“But you set a bet to make some poor lad fall tit-first for you?” Niall barks, hands gripping his rolling chair as his face reddens with amusement.

Liam can only sigh out of exasperation, nearly planting his feet back on the ground for stability rather than leaning back with his shoes scuffing his desk. “If I can win him over in ten days then that shows I can win over a client, which proves to Winston that I’ll be able to sell our agency to the Dilaurentis.”

“Did you say his name is ‘Zayn’?” Niall questions, seemingly having ignored half of whatever has fallen from Liam’s lips.

So Liam lets his hand drag down his face, really needing help from Niall as a colleague more than a friend as of now. “Yes. Zayn Malik.”

“And you said he’s fit, yeah?”

“I did.”

“But you didn’t shag ‘im?”

“Niall!” Liam reprimands, meeting his limit with patience. “I didn’t want to stay out late because I’m stressing out over this pitch, and I didn’t want to give Zayn the impression that he’s just a one-off.”

“Fine, fine,” Niall leans back in his own chair, obviously sensing Liam’s frayed nerves a live wire. “So when are you gunna see him again?”

Liam sets his feet back on the ground, leans over his desk in a motion he knows can’t be good for his spinal curvature. “Maybe tonight. He’s got tickets for the Knicks game, but I think he’s taking someone else.”

“Call him and find out,” Niall suggests, blasé, as if implementing yourself into someone else’s plans isn’t considered rude.

“I’m not quite sure he’d be happy with taking me, honestly. Don’t know if he was too into me for the long run,” Liam shrugs, default mode assuming the worst as a given. It’s a tad self-depreciating, but Liam’s learned he’s not performing any favors by lying to himself.

Niall only shakes his head, huffs out good-naturedly as if he’s correcting a child. “As soon as you call him I’ll help you go over logistics.”

**

“So he’s a sugardaddy?” Zoe deadpans, flicking her gaze over her shoulder as she scrolls through Alexander McQueen’s website to find the scarf Zayn alluded to earlier.

Zayn doesn’t even try to conceal his eye-roll, cocks his hip as he waits for Zoe to claim one of the coffees he went upstairs to order. “He’s not paying me to sleep with him, Zo.”

“Not _directly_ ,” she reasons as she goes back to browsing, “but with gifts like that –“

“It wasn’t a _gift_ , Zoe,” Zayn snaps, incredibly crabby even as far as mornings go. “I merely forgot to give it back after dinner.”

“Dinner at _Sushi Nakazawa_ , Zayn,” Zoe finally turns around, grabs her coffee as she crosses one knee over the other and folds her hands neatly, “A four-star restaurant that takes reservations a month in advance.”

Zayn turns around to disguise his wince as he settles back into his workspace. Because he _knows_ ; he looked up the restaurant as soon as he got back home.

“You’ve found yourself with a comfy little dilemma,” she continues, unperturbed by Zayn’s lack of care for the commentary.

Harry makes his entrance then, fist-bumping Zayn and pecking Zoe’s cheek before leaning back against Zayn’s cubicle. “Dilemma?”

“On whether or not he should continue with the assignment or actually date Liam.”

Zayn nearly spits out his beverage, leaning forward so as not to get it on his clothes if it does happen. “ _What?_ ”

Zoe only turns herself back around, rests her chin on her left hand while she continues her search for the damned scarf. “I know you, Zayn, and you wouldn’t be feeling so bad about the prospect of letting Liam treat you if it were only for the article.”

Instead of responding, Zayn takes the initiative in finding the scarf by rounding his way to Zoe’s computer and looking it up on google images, following the money trail back to the sold out item on Alexander McQueen’s official page.

Nobody comments on the price ($635) even though Zayn’s sure Harry is partially referencing it when he states “Nice.”

Saving him from further discomfort, a bit of a commotion coming from the company entrance garners the floor’s attention, delivery men carrying a rainbow of roses.

“Delivery for Malik!” one of his colleagues shouts, and Zayn can feel his face grow red as his lungs quit working.

Unaware of Harry and Zoe being exceedingly nosy, Zayn zeros in on the delivery men coming his way. A voluminous display of red, pink, purple, and orange roses all centered around a single white rose walks his direction as if in slow motion, settles on his desk, and he can only stare at it, barely looking up once Harry’s cackle begins drawing even more attention to his area.

Zayn promptly snatches a note from Harry’s hands that presumably came with the delivery, mumbling a hardly coherent thanks to the deliverer as he cradles a surprisingly cute bumblebee plush as a last gift.

Harry’s still cracking up when Zayn cuts his eyes at him, Zoe making herself useful in the predicament by signing off on the flowers, because at least _one_ of his friends takes him seriously. (Or as serious as one can be taken with a motherfucking fuzzy, bumblebee plush under their arm.)

Zayn one hundred percent considers trashing the note, but, like a train wreck, he can’t keep his attention away even though it’s painful to focus on. Finally, apprehensively, Zayn settles his eyes on the script:

> ” _little bird –_
> 
> _Red for romance,  
>  Pink for admiration,  
> Lavender for enchantment,  
> Salmon for excitement,  
> & White to tie them all together  
> with charm  
> to showcase pure intentions  
> and new beginnings._
> 
> _Beautiful they appear,  
>  yet none as vibrant as your personality,  
> nor as sweet as that arse._
> 
> _– L x”_

  
Immediately Zayn feels the effects of the poem on his disposition as he turns away from the relatively open floorplan, tucks his chin and strangles the damned stuffed animal to his chest as if it can defend him from unprecedented attention. He literally feels himself curling inward as his shoulders hunch, and he really can’t do a damned thing about it.

In a last ditch effort to shed the mortification cracking his bones, Zayn lays his heated cheek onto his cool desktop, more thankful for the glass surface than ever before.

A few moments later (although it feels like years) Zoe is rubbing circles between Zayn’s shoulder blades, hushing, “Nobody’s looking, by the way. When the roses first came in they were curious, but now they’re all playing Solitaire and shit.”

Zayn snorts at that, sitting back up slowly after a few moments to glance at Zoe and a sheepish Harry.

His ringing cell startles him, and it takes about twice as long as usual to fumble his phone to his ear. “Hello?” Luckily, his voice doesn’t even sound soft with nerves.

“Little bird,” Liam coos into Zayn’s ear, tone emanating _security_ , “how’s your day been?”

Zayn doesn’t know whether to sink into the steadiness of Liam’s voice or spout off in anger, but either way he’s impressed he can marshal so easily his feelings into any label more dignified than a muddle of biology.

“It was just fine until someone filled my humiliation quota for the month with a display of roses.” He’s terse. Terse is good. Terse he can work with.

The line is silent for a moment. “You’re not happy with me,” Liam states.

Zayn closes his eyes at that, not as atoned as he thought he might be with an apologetic Liam. And he nuzzles into his new toy that’s big enough for a throw pillow, inhales the odd combination of pine and citrus that draws sympathy to mend his fractured bones.

Quietly, he tries again: “I just wasn’t expecting it is all. Don’t much like all the attention if I’m not somewhat prepared.”

“Shit,” Liam hisses away from the speaker, a bit of rushed chatter on the other end of the service before Liam’s back. “I’m sorry, Zayn. I wasn’t quite thinking, and I just wanted to give you something a bit special.”

“Is this about the tickets?” Zayn interrogates, defense once again up. His eyes literally squint as the need to release frustration has his fingers locking up.

“What?” Liam questions before, “No, no, Zayn. I mean – don’t get me wrong – I’d love to go with you, but I wasn’t trying to buy you or anything. Oh, God –“

“Liam,” Zayn tries to placate, indecently endeared by Liam’s insecure ramblings. “It’s fine, babe. I’m sorry I even asked, then.” He sighs out heavily, and it’s like that’s all he needed to release his ill will.

“Are you sure, Zayn? Because –“

“The stuffed animal is rather adorable, Bumblebee,” Zayn cuts Liam off with a hum, not yet shied by his own use of a pet name when he feels he has the upper hand, “And with that poem I can see how you’re quite well-off in your field.”

Liam actually chuckles at that, and Zayn won’t admit how pleased he is with the response. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Zayn indulges, can’t help the smile tugging on his lips as he wheels around to motion for Zoe’s attention. “I found the bit on my sweet arse especially charming.”

Zayn can sense the change in demeanor as Liam lets out a throaty noise. “I was put under the impression that it’s rather worthwhile.”

He allows idle chatter for a minute before asking Zoe about her cares for the Knicks tickets and wrapping the conversation up. Liam is growing cocky, and that won’t do.

“Meet me at the 7th Avenue entrance. 7:30. I suppose I can decide if you’ll get a taste then.”

“It’s a date.”

——

Zayn imagines he’d make a great meme, sticking out like a sore thumb with a resting bitch face in a crowd of basketball enthusiasts. There are foam fingers obscuring his view, the last two hours a blur of orange and blue, and he’s sure he’ll have trouble hearing tomorrow with the level the decibels are cranked up to in the stadium, yells and boos and laughter. Not to mention the fucking _buzzer_ that hasn’t failed yet to startle him near shitting-pants level.

And to make matters worse, Liam fucking _thrives_ in this environment. And that’s making it hard for Zayn to just stand here with his arms crossed, disrespecting the energy of the crowd. Because the fucking teddy bear keeps joking with the tween to their right, talking plays and players that all sounds like gibberish to Zayn.

He’s been regretting his decision to reinvent his plans to accompany Liam since he hung up the phone with him at work. Because at least with Zoe he could let loose, people watch with two sets of eyes, and, y’know, be _spoken_ to.

O _kay_. So maybe the root of the problem rests in the fact that Liam hasn’t paid much attention to him the whole night. And maybe Zayn hasn’t exactly tried to correct the issue by owning the mood of a cranky cat. But what _really_ gets to Zayn is the fact that he’s not even helping his work for the article right now. Unless Liam just really hates being tagged by a mute. Which doesn’t seem to be the case, because, again, he’s still having a blast with everyone that _isn’t_ Zayn.

Stepping out of his own headspace, Zayn decides to watch the last portion of the game. 64 to 67, Knicks leading. Wait – no. The boos from his section reach a crescendo, and Zayn is tempted to start cheering for the Kings in spite of it all. Especially since they just pulled even.

Liam turns toward Zayn once their crowd is back to cheering. “Can you believe that?“

And he looks so cuddly Zayn has to fight the urge to just melt into the attention, wilting hair and rumpled jersey (fucking _jersey_ , the cliché) with reddened cheeks from his exuberance.

After five seconds of just staring at Liam, Zayn is unsure of what exactly he’s referring to. But Zayn’s sure he can believe it, actually, because it’s basketball, and he’s learned enough in the sport to know the edge can be flipped on the dime. Also, the quicker reality permeates his thoughts the quicker he remembers he’s mad at Liam. “Yes,” he states, arms securing tighter over his chest without eye contact.

Liam is unperturbed by the iciness, apparently. “So how much do you think they’ll pull by?

Zayn acts like he doesn’t hear him, bobbing his head fractionally as if he has a tune stuck in his head, finally looking at Liam with blanched surprise after a beat. “Oh, are you talking to me?”

Head tilting, Liam looks like a fucking puppy. (A cute, fluffy puppy.) “Yes, you, Zayn.” He’s slightly puzzled, still dopey with energy.

Zayn makes a show of looking around Liam. To an empty seat. Only fueled further, the vengeful little demon in Zayn’s ear cats, “What, was it your little buddy’s bedtime?”

When Liam’s eyes slit just so, Zayn can tell his attitude is rubbing off. “Don’t be silly, Zayn. Colin is fifteen. I’m sure he can stay up past” – he glances at his watch – “9:20.”

One thing Zayn will always value is his quick wit. “He’s _underage_?!” Zayn stage-whispers, hand flying over his heart, “I’m not about kink-shaming, but acting on it is _illegal_ , Mr. Payne.”

“Zayn,” Liam rushes, brow scrunching as annoyance sets in, “I’m not a fucking child molester. Besides,” a hand gesticulates sharply, “his dad is the one who brought him.”

“Oh,” Zayn sighs heavily, as if a burden has lifted off his shoulders, “So you’re just trying to get to another man?” Zayn blinks owlishly, faux-innocently. “You should have just told me, Liam. I could have left already. Or am I playing wing man?” he derides.

“What the hell, Zayn?” Liam is truly confused now, exasperated as his breathy guffaw indicates. And Zayn almost feels bad.

But he has a paper to write, and it’s still quite annoying that this is the longest continuative conversation he’s had with Liam all night. “Oh look,” he silently praises _Colin_ for his punctuality, “your step-son is back. Don’t let me disturb you.” And at that he shuts up, promptly follows the ball with his eyes as it swishes through the net, Knicks fans crying with delight.

Liam’s hand cups his elbow, thumb grazing comfort in slow swipes. “Are you okay, Zayn?”

Despite his intentions in dosing Liam with the silent treatment, Zayn’s tongue misses the cue from his brain. “ _Now_ you decide to care?” His eyes cut at Liam, flick away just as swiftly, but he can’t actually focus on anything, the monochromatic scheme of _orange_ that is this sport getting to him.

A thick arm winds its way around his waist loosely, coerces Zayn into angling himself further into Liam’s side. “Little bird,” Liam softens in his ear. Demanding but concerned, his scruff tickles Zayn’s ear and has him near giggles. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

A time-out is called for the Knicks, and Zayn’s glad because it brings him back to reality.

But apparently Liam doesn’t care much for the game now, putting the armrest up between their seats and sitting them down along with everyone else. Except they’re quite a bit more intimately posed than everyone else, Zayn practically in Liam’s lap with the man’s hand dangerously close to his bum.

“ _Liam_ ,” Zayn near hisses, avoiding eye contact under the ruse that everything is peachy so if an audience happens to look. “We’re in public.”

Having learned his way around Zayn’s moods far too deftly, Liam just nuzzles further into his side, whispers, “I could set you on my lap, all pretty for me. I know you’d love it.”

Part of Zayn is appalled by Liam’s bravado, but a much more honest part is quite beguiled. So he doesn’t answer, just rests his weight heavier on Liam’s shoulder.

“I’d let you curl up on me, get comfy in my lap,” he gentles lips just before Zayn’s ear. “I know you had a long day at work, and I know all this rambunctiousness must be taxing.”

Zayn only hums in agreement, somehow calmed by Liam’s words despite the envelopment of chaos alluded to in them.

A chuckle falls past Liam’s lips, almost nefarious. “Then you could hiss at all the basketball dads that get too close, bear your claws to let them know whose I am with the marks sucked to my neck.”

An audible gasp falls past Zayn’s lips, his hand claiming Liam’s upper thigh with the shock the man’s words prompt.

Liam would surely continue his game if not for the kiss cam stealing his attention with a silly cartoon replicating a prior kiss, the man’s focus seemingly deficit.

Zayn lets his eyes rest on his date instead of allowing the inattention to irritate him, studies the way Liam’s features are pure joy, laughter. In a flash Liam’s cheeks heat rosy, chin tucking ever-so-slightly as his lips press together to hide his nerves.

And Zayn has an idea of what caused it, hopes he’s wrong, but –

Up high on the big screen he and Liam are being projected for the whole world to see, and Zayn was right in assuming their positioning is rather risqué for public. He probably admires their appearance a few seconds too long, but he cares not, because with Liam’s abashed ruggedness and his own pampered handling they look _hot_.

“We don’t have to,” Liam offers uncertainly, tongue peeking out to wet his lips as his eye contact flickers.

But their section is goading them on with an uproar of “ _Yeah!_ s”, and Zayn’s hit once more with the adrenaline Liam’s timidity brings on, so he cups the back of Liam’s neck, squeezes the man’s upper thigh in hopes it feels like comfort –and kisses him.

It probably only lasts five seconds, a gentle press of lips, but Zayn’s reluctant to pull back when Liam gasps into his mouth so softly, almost like he tries to hide it, when he feels Liam’s mouth mold to his bottom lip, a soft pressure as a hand tickles just under his chin before it’s over.

The taste of cherry lip balm and a tingling in his toes is all he’s left with, Liam’s cheek hot under the ghost of Zayn’s fingers. So he darts back in for one last peck, Liam not even able to react before some ridiculous cartoon of Bugs Bunny and another Bunny both wearing jerseys at a basketball game is playing over the megatron.

It’s cute, Zayn will admit. While the cam zooms in on another duo, Zayn feathers a kiss to Liam’ cheekbone, holds his hand out for a fist bump and tells Liam, “We did good.”

A whistle is blown and the megatron flashes back to sweaty men who’ve gained more towards their salary in the timespan of this game than Zayn does quarterly. _The difference likely compensates for their having to put up with a life of fame_ , Zayn briefly entertains, lost in his head a bit so as not to replay over again Liam’s heating cheeks and plump lips.

A trumpeting jingle is playing throughout the stadium and everyone stands in shouting “Charge!”, but Zayn can’t help noticing Liam’s lack of involvement, slightly turned away from Zayn but allowing their arms to brush.

It sets off a festering anxiety in Zayn’s stomach because Liam’s unpredictable actions only serve to highlight Zayn’s outstanding lack of control throughout the whole night, his lack of insight. And he can’t afford to not have the edge, so he snaps, “What are you doing?” a bit too harshly, jerks his arm from where Liam had leaned against it.

Liam doesn’t seem angered or even confused, though. In fact, at the attention he smiles wide, eyes almost relieved to start moving his lips, voice surely uttering something Zayn can’t hear over the crowd.

Not really in the mood to talk to Liam after the whole night ignored and loath to play the _What did you say? Huh?_ game that would almost definitely have both them looking an idiot, Zayn turns away and tries to focus on the last 3:00 minutes of the Knicks because avid or not, he’s still a fan.

Except his date is continually bumping into his arm, lips disturbing the air around Zayn’s ear close enough to touch. And, quite frankly, it’s only stressing Zayn out. So, with noise compressing him all around, Zayn snips, “I’m thirsty,” turns to Liam with finality to his statement.

“I can make sure to buy you something on the way out,” Liam is quick to jump to, literally lighting up with the prospect as his hands stuff in his pockets and eyebrows shoot up.

Staring at Liam blankly for a moment, Zayn turns away to continue watching the game, crosses his arms and exhales sharply out of his nose to release a bit of tension. At football games the camera crew loves to zoom in on fans when their opposing team scores, and Zayn’s sad to say basketball doesn’t allow that sort of raw entertainment, especially since he’d love that reprieve right about now from his horrid attitude he can’t seem to get a grip on.

“Or,” Liam starts his concession with a hand to Zayn’s elbow, “I could just get you a drink now.” His eyes are timorous – almost self-depreciating when Zayn glances to the man. “Beat the traffic and all…” he trails off with his gaze flittering, hand receding from Zayn’s elbow to cup the back of his neck.

“Mountain Dew,” is what Zayn offers simply.

Liam jerks to attention at that, eyes growing bright once again. “Yeah? I can get right on that,” he clumsily points his thumb over his shoulder.

A small nod Zayn allows, a soft, “Thanks, Li,” rather candidly appreciative.

Zayn can easily imagine a tail wagging as the golden retriever that is his big-shot date trots off. And as the stands break into an enthusiastic cheer around him he directs his attention back to the two minutes left of the game.

**

Just as he exits the arena at a jog, rounds the corner to where they sell food and beverage, it hits Liam that he’s about to miss the last bit of a playoffs game. And, well – he can’t just go back in without Zayn’s drink, but missing a Knicks win isn’t exactly on the top of his Bucket List either.

After too many beautiful seconds wasted of deliberation, Liam fumbles with his wallet in his jeans to plead a, “Large Mountain Dew, please,” to whoever is running concessions, not even glancing up as he slaps a fiver to the counter.

Liam eyes a TV set up at the back of the stand that’s relaying the game, and he tunes in just in time to witness Derrick Williams dunk for the Kings. As his hands fly up of their own accord and he groans a “ _Come on!_ ” he nearly misses a questions directed at him.

“Do you want to make that a Jumbo?” an older man croaks out rather politely, methodically.

“Um,” Liam tries to evaluate the question as stats and time-keeping and Zayn are already buzzing up his head, dragging his eyes over the man’s sincere expression and blue work attire, “No, thanks.”

“You sure?” the man continues even though he’s already turned to fill up a cheap cup with soda, “You know, with just 25 cents more you could make it a Jumbo.”

 _Bless_. “That’s alright,” Liam assures, eyeing the clock in the corner of the TV as he waits for the man to _hurry up_ , toes tapping as the last 50 seconds slink away.

“Okay then,” the guy whistles, reaches for a lid to top off the drink, but –

“No lid, thanks,” Liam leans on the counter, gives his best appreciative smile as he nods slightly.

The worker’s eyebrows merely raise as he sets the drink on the counter. “That’ll be $3.75, then.”

Liam only scoops up the blasted beverage, tightens one last smile with a, “Keep the change,” as he points at the five dollars on the counter before brisking back to the arena. Because if he’s fast enough he can at least get a view of the ten second countdown.

Except he really should have just gotten a lid, because the Mountain Dew is sloshing out of its cup, surely stickying Liam’s hand. Slowing down a bit in shock to shake the liquid off his fingers, Liam curses himself for getting into this situation, trying so damned hard to please Zayn.

The noise from the arena grows louder, and Liam clomps back inside just before the buzzer, not actually able to see anything due to the people on the floor and camera equipment and such.

He groans out bad-temperedly at having just fucking missed the Knicks’ victory.

—— 

“I must say Colin is a right lad,” Zayn rambles as he slurps away at his Mountain Dew, night air urging him to draw his leather jacket tighter.

Liam could honestly smack him, although he’s trying to suppress the absurd urge. Because it’s not like Zayn purposely ignored him all night just to send him off on a wild goose chase for a damned soda. It’s not like Zayn intentionally planned for Liam to miss the end of the game. The very notion is preposterous. So Liam offers a tight-lipped smile, nods once. “Yeah.”

“And, y’know,” Zayn laughs innocuously with a lift of his shoulders, “I’ve never seen such an incredible win.”

Liam slits his eyes. _Okay_ , so maybe the possibility isn’t so absurd. “Neither have I,” Liam near grits. Color him suspicious.

Zayn doesn’t say much else as they come upon the street, cabs lined up for a horde of commuters. But a slick little smile ebbs its way onto his lips. “It’s too bad you missed it.”

It’s the fact that Liam started off the night with bones soaked in worry that he’d put Zayn in an uncomfortable position with the flower display that slows him down on the last few steps Zayn bounces through to his cab. Apprehension held him back all night from bothering Zayn with any senseless yammering, and depreciation grips his chest over the possibility that Zayn felt the need to make a fool of him. He made sure to give Zayn space – especially after near forcing himself into the game invitation, trying to make amends, and of course he still fucked it all up.

Liam feels ridiculously small in his jersey, embarrassing as he toes at the ground just before Zayn in the open door of his cab, unsure if he’s actually allowed to see Zayn off or not.

But a palm just over his navel has Liam’s tummy stirring, head lifting up to receive Zayn words: “Thank you, Li.” The younger boy’s eyes are a lovely shade of hazel, and Liam is almost lost in them before Zayn’s leaning forward slightly, chin tilted.

Liam, rather unsure of exactly Zayn’s desire, throws _fuck all_ to the wind and presses a kiss to the corner of Zayn’s mouth with a hand to his hip.

“I want to see you again,” Zayn steadies a gaze to Liam – almost as if he can read Liam’s pathetically downtrodden thoughts, “Alright?” His tone is warm and easy, eyes certain.

An added rub to the stomach is all Liam needs to proffer enough confidence for satisfaction: “I’ll look forward to it, little bird,” he smiles as genuinely self-assured as he can, backs away slowly after one last squeeze to Zayn’s hip.

| _Friday_ |

The prospects of a meeting are always just as dignified in their dread-bring, Liam has come to realize time and time again, than the actual endeavor ends up amounting to. Sitting at a glossy, rectangle table with Lips & Hips positioned directly across from him, not even the warm sunshine floating through the windows can bring to light anything other than _Yes_ ; yes business conferences are just as horrid in actuality as his nightmares conjure them to be.

Winston is rambling on about company numbers he really has little applied knowledge regarding, spewing the curse ‘shit’ as a suffix to any animal that pops into his mind.

And Liam is gripping an over-priced, foam cup of coffee from Birch’s just around the corner, letting the heat soak into his palm as he covertly eyes the rest of his associates to find comfort in the fact that _yes_ , they are all in the same sinking ship.

Niall’s just to Liam’s right twiddling his thumbs, Andy at Liam’s complement angle not-so-discreetly scrolling through his phone, Sarah and Jessica multi-tasking by nodding enthusiastically when Winston directs his gaze their way but otherwise engaged in what looks like an argument when he turns his back (which, Liam will admit, is rather impressively achieved). And Liam is sat in his most uncomfortable pair of Kiton pinstripe trousers, fitted dress shirt a few degrees too hot. All because Winston has a taste for style, and Liam is about ready to label himself _pathetic_ for dressing in such to get on the boss’s good side.

A newer receptionist pops her head in quietly, knocks rapt on the conference door to garner attention.

“ _What_?” Winston snaps, jerks around just to settle into a kinder smile as he realizes it’s one of the cuter subordinates. Sick.

“Um,” Gracie’s thick, Boston accent stutters a bit as she flicks her eyes around the room, “There’s a line for Mr. Payne.”

Nearly freezing up, wary to be called out, Liam goes ahead and directs: “Could you just take a message, Gracie?”

Voice a tad lower, eyes pointed, the receptionist continues, “It’s Zayn, Mr. Payne.”

Liam’s stuck a bit between whether to try to get further into Zayn’s good graces by taking the call or please Winston by insisting he’s too busy. In the back of his mind he figures that impressing Zayn would possibly lead to Liam impressing Winston eventually, but –

His boss gives a chuckle at that, smile enthusiastic. “Oh, so we’re getting somewhere?” he wiggles his eyebrows a bit oddly toward Liam as his hands clasp together and he leans forward.

“Er –“ Liam grips the arms of his chair.

“Take the call, Payne,” Winston urges, seemingly unperturbed by the disruption.

“Alright,” Liam nods, smooths his tie down to stand.

“Go ahead and take your stuff with you. I’m nearly done,” Winston waves his hand, already back to animatedly jabbing at posters.

Mood abruptly uplifted, Liam bites the inside of his cheek until he’s out the door and can let his smile out full-force, rounding the corner to his desk and nodding at Gracie as he picks up the phone. “Little bird,” he endears.

“Hi, bumblebee,” Zayn giggles through the phone.

The sound is so pleasant that Liam ignores the bit of chatter in the background of Zayn’s end, steels himself for the hurricane that is Zayn’s presence when he allows himself to call Liam ‘bumblebee’. “You just got me out of a very boring meeting.”

“Well you’re welcome, Mr. Payne.” There’s got to be a smirk molding the lad’s features.

“Is there anything you need?” Liam leans back in his own rolling chair, tinkers with a pen on his desk.

“Oh,” Zayn gushes – a bit too ardently to be considered authentic, but, “I just called to let you know that I had a wonderful time last night, and I already miss you, Li-li.”

Eyebrows furrowing, something nasty is beginning to eat away at Liam’s stomach. “Well I had a nice time, too,” he plays along, throws in, “thanks again for the ticket,” for good measure.

There’s a bit of a commotion through the tinny service, a distinctive _smack_ sound.

Like the dopamine hasn’t been sucked up fast enough in his cells, Liam’s good mood turns sour on the dime. “Right, well,” he mutters gruffly, “I’ve got to be going, then.”

“Wait!” Zayn shouts through the phone, voice no longer echo-y – as if he’s taken Liam off speakerphone. “Do I get to see you tonight?”

And _this_ is Zayn, Liam can tell. Tone just sly of shy. No pretenses. “How about you pick us out a movie to go see.”

The line is quiet for a moment until “Are you sure you’re ready for that?” is teased.

Liam laughs at that, tension in his shoulders easing. “No, but I would like to see you again anyhow.”

“Alright, Mr. Payne,” Zayn sighs, seemingly unaware of what the sound does to Liam’s arousal, “I’ll let you go make your money.”

“Text me the details,” Liam replies as he checks his watch, makes a mental note to get started on some reports due soon.

“Kay,” is what’s hushed from Zayn, but he sounds woe to actually hang up, something underlying the tone that’s a bit vulnerable.

It draws yet another chuckle from Liam. “I’ve really got to go, little bird, but I’ll see you soon.”

“Alright,” Zayn hums, likely gently preoccupied with something from the sounds of it, “bye, Li.”

“Goodbye,” Liam hangs up, leans back in his chair once more to catch his breath.

**

Despite having waited all his life to witness a showdown between his idols, it took Zayn quite a bit of internal confliction to settle on asking Liam to go see _Dawn of Justice_ with him. Because how was he supposed to react if Liam wasn’t so open to seeing it? What if the man looked down on him for such extensive, trivial interests?

Twenty minutes past pacing back and forth across his checkered kitchen tiles whilst ringing his hands together, Zayn settled on the fact that if Liam didn’t appreciate the movie then the column would be just that much easier to write.

His excited jitters seem stemmed by naught, though, ambling about his flat to wash a load of dirty whites and check the cabinet twenty times in case he skipped over the non-existent bottle of vodka in storage.

Presently, curled up in a rather comfortable seat, giggling like mad with Liam about old DC comics while the previews play, Zayn can’t even begin to conceive what had him so nerve-ridden in the first place.

“C’mon, Liam,” Zayn goads on, his date playing as if he’s _actually_ neutral on the matter, “Who do you think would win between Batman and Superman?” His feet have already found their way to the back of the seat in front of him, head lolling against his own to give Liam a faux-stern glare.

Liam sits with his left ankle resting on his right knee, fingers dancing over the shared armrest as he takes a deep breath, gearing up to answer truthfully _finally_. “I’m not going to comment on that,” he lets out in a sly _whoosh_ , smirk wicked.

“ _Lee-yum_ ,” Zayn moans and groans, perfectly aware of his effusively loud behavior but reckless all the same for effect, especially given that another silly commercial is playing yet. “You know what? I’m not talking to you until you tell me.”

Either believing it a bluff or up for a challenge, Liam merely pops out an “OK”, shoves a handful of buttery popcorn into his mouth after a few Reese’s Pieces, slurps obnoxiously at his water. (Because, _“I’m trying to keep fit, Zaynie,” he proclaimed, solemn despite Zayn’s own guffaw and their junk food racking up the ticket._ )

The last few stragglers squeeze into seats as the lead-up to _Dawn of Justice_ begins, theatre washed in dark shadow, and Zayn can practically feel the energy radiating off of Liam, toes tip-tapping. And the ill chance of it being from something as simple as sugar plays with Zayn’s mind, has his chest frazzling.

Zayn’s on a mission now, is the thing. An idea pops into his head to talk Liam’s ear off throughout the movie, something of the like portrayed in _The Universal Don’ts of Dating_. Not only will it help him to find out what gets the man ticking, but he hopes to find Liam’s superhero bias somewhere in the passing remarks he’ll surely make in response to Zayn’s rambling.

——

Halfway through the movie Zayn’s more caught up with the plot via Liam’s giggled annotations than attention directed at the actual film, which he can’t take the time to analyze the implication behind because, again, he’s too caught up in Liam’s radiation of _joy_ absorbing into his skin like bright sunrays in a darkened room.

Casts of blues and purples highlighting the theatre, Zayn is oddly comfortable with the intimacy, almost loath to duck a sheepish look from those who warn them to ‘ _Keep it down!_ ” because it takes away from his studying Liam’s highlighted features.

And Zayn can’t recall exactly when Liam’s paw landed itself onto his knee, but he knows it’s a constant stimulus to the butterflies in his stomach, and he won’t shift for fear of the chilly atmosphere shocking better discretion into his carefree actions.

——

“Who would you rather suck off?”

The film is near over, in the middle of the climax, but Zayn is restless what with not being able to concentrate on the movie due to _Liam_ right beside him.

Liam’s doesn’t seem to realize his question, though, not even paying attention with elbows resting on his knees, looking as if he’s ready to jump into the movie and take a fighting stance for – well, whoever it is Liam is rooting for. (Zayn hasn’t quite grown privy to that detail yet.) So Zayn has taken to resting in his seat, following the contours of Liam’s muscle with his eyes as the lights flash over his thick forearms, full lips, nose, eyebrows.

Fingers grazing a bulging bicep, Zayn continues, “Or are you more keen to licking out?”

The film’s audio quietens a bit, Liam’s stature de-tensing as he leans back in his own seat. Like a light switch flicking on, Liam finally turns to Zayn and automatically hands out attention. “Hmm?” an arms wraps around Zayn’s shoulders, lips humming against his temple.

Zayn legitimately whines, a dog not allowed his bone as he noses Liam’s jaw. “Why don’t you pay attention to me? Are you thinking about my questions in too much detail?”

Liam pulls back slightly to raise his brows at Zayn in query, fingers soothing circles into the younger’s arm. “We’re at a movie, babe. One _you_ picked out, might I add.”

A huff and a roll of his eyes, Zayn tries to lean away from Liam’s touch. “I don’t see you complaining. Especially since all of the actors are wearing spandex.”

Retracting his arm, Liam is visibly growing exasperated. “ _What_?”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Zayn snips, glues his eyes to the screen (where Ben Affleck’s arse is looking amazing, he’ll admit), “Go ahead and fantasize about dicking down Aquaman; don’t let _me_ , your _date_ , get in the way.”

Liam might have begun to respond, but Zayn can’t speculate because the man behind them leans down and scolds: “Could you _please_ be quiet?”

And Zayn knows he should really just keep his mouth shut, but he’s been spending too much time with Louis. (Which he _knows_ isn’t an _actual_ excuse, but it’s the only one he’s got.) “You had no problem crunching on all that popcorn, bro.”

Liam admonishes, “Zayn,” just as the man retorts, “That was for ten minutes. You two have been ruining the movie for a fucking hour.”

This time Liam turns toward the guy behind them, arms raising as if to justify and settle, but Zayn blurts out, “Oh really? Because _your_ hot breath down my neck is fogging up the damned theater.”

As soon as it’s uttered Zayn has to hold himself back from clapping a hand over his mouth, and the man is suddenly appearing much more intimidating as he lurches to his feet, muscles in his chest popping as he puffs his chest out. “What the fuck did you just say!?”

“Look,” Liam really does offer up his palms this time, tries to keep as quiet as possible as even more dirty glares are pointed their way, “I’m sorry this has gotten so out of hand –“

“Yeah? Why don’t you put your friend on a leash, then?” Buff boy demands.

Jaw dropping open, Zayn wouldn’t filter his thoughts if he could. “Listen, arsehole, if you don’t chill out my _boyfriend_ will pummel your ass.”

Out of the corner of his eye Zayn can see Liam’s eyes widen in a ‘ _What the fuck?!_ ’ translation, and Zayn can only pull a toothy frown as if to say ‘ _Whoops_ ’ in reply before –

“Let’s finish this outside then.”

Zayn is about to just groan in annoyance, but then Liam begins trying to reconcile again and the random reasserts, “I _said_ , ‘Let’s take this the fuck outside if you think you can land a hit on me.’”

“Shut the fuck up!” a teenager shouts from a few rows in front, popcorn pegging Liam’s head just before the girl flips her hair over her shoulder and turns back around.

A heavy sigh later Liam is near manhandling a snorting Zayn out of their seats, telling their opponent, “After you.”

Zayn can’t get a word in edgewise between exiting into the cinema lobby, being strong-armed behind Liam, and watching as the other guy’s fist swings out in slow motion, no pause in actions.

It’s a bit anticlimactic, actually, because the only thing that hits impact is Liam’s forearm dodging the blow, a proper fighting stance positioning Liam’s feet. And the next thing Zayn comprehends, Liam has the lad in a sort of arm lock, proclaiming, “I’m not trying to fight, man.” His words are strained, and Zayn can tell Liam’s putting in a bit of work to hold the heavier lad still.

Shocked, not fully processing the situation still, Zayn doesn’t know whether to intervene or skirt away, eyes darting around as if a watchdog. But he knows his heart rate is picking up, and the urge to protect Liam is growing in his chest even though, rationally, Zayn knows that Liam isn’t in too imminent danger.

Random shuffles out of Liam’s hold after a good ten seconds of struggling before tapping out, shaking his shoulders out of the uncomfortable position. “Damn, you can fight proper then?” his voice hardly wobbles as he seems to assess whether or not Liam will retaliate a blow.

Liam doesn’t answer before the guy is holding his hands up, backing away with a nod, “I know when to call it, bro.” And then he’s back in the theatre, the lobby area next to the arcade dead silent.

Chest pumping to pull air – surely an effect of adrenaline wearing thin – Liam’s face is flushed a deep red, and the sight of him so disheveled drops a stone in Zayn’s stomach that feels a lot like guilt, so it’s with little thought that Zayn launches himself at the man, fingers curling around the back of his head to do a quick inspection for damage with raking eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Liam. Are you hurt? Are you okay?” Zayn rambles sloppily, hands contouring the muscles in Liam’s shoulders, chest, back that – if he were to admit it – probably do much more to calm Zayn himself than provide actual comfort for Liam.

Zayn doesn’t even realize his spiked breaths until Liam’s palms soothe to his wrists, trace the length of his arm to rub warmth into tense muscles. “I’m alright,” Liam assures as he steadies Zayn’s chin with a thumb, adds a chuckle to lighten the atmosphere, “I toss around with me mates worse off than that.”

“Still,” Zayn insists as he shuffles further into Liam, “I was a right idiot to provoke that guy.”

For some reason keen on avoiding the topic, Liam merely jibes, “I can’t believe you didn’t comment on my word choice. Have you cleansed out all your dirty thoughts, then?” And a thumb tickles along Zayn’s lower lip almost unthinkingly.

“Shove off, Liam,” Zayn scolds with contorting features and a sharper tone, “’m trying to be serious right now.”

Liam sighs, walks them back slowly to lean against a lime green wall (that is rather distracting, actually) and rub calloused fingertips over his eyes as Zayn takes to fiddling with Liam’s shirt buttons aimlessly.

It’s quiet for a few moments, the stillness of the cinema lobby a bit uncanny as each gather their thoughts. Liam decides to break the silence with a forefinger hooking under Zayn’s chin. “You still with me, little bird?”

Gripping firmer Liam’s shirt, Zayn darts up to peck a tiny, wet kiss to Liam’s mouth, voice small as he pleads, “’m sorry, Liam.” Sincere, warm eyes are wide as they complete the disposition of a child who’s just done accidental harm.

Liam’s features flit over emotions that range from pity to anger before he exhales deeply. “No harm, no foul,” he eventually decides, lips quirking into a half-smile.

“But you _could_ have been hurt,” Zayn argues with furrowing brows and an upset pucker to his bitten mouth.

The executive’s head leans back against the wall for a moment before he’s back to steadying Zayn’s gaze, larger hands firming themselves to the small of Zayn’s back and his cheek. “I box, Zayn. I wouldn’t have been hurt anything I couldn’t handle.”

The information has a hard way working itself into Zayn’s knowledge, his confused eyes likely enough for the other to go by. “Why?”

Liam lets loose a chuckle. “Keeps me in shape, and it’s good to know for self-defense. Plus, it’s a great stress-reliever.”

Zayn tilts his head into Liam’s palm as he nods, one hand wrapping around Liam’s wrist while the other splays over a solid chest as he soaks in the trivia. “What made you get into it?”

Eyes flickering away, Liam’s lips twitch imperceptibly to maintain a now-forced smile. “Doesn’t matter, does it? I’ll have to start taking it up in public if it means you get all sweet for me, though.”

Filing the lack of response away for later, Zayn allows an indignant titter to prelude his palm smacking at Liam’s pec.

| _Saturday_ |

It’s said that urban areas don’t experience the seasons as thoroughly as rural do, but Liam feels the full effects of summer around him every time he’s in the vicinity of Christopher Park, a sea of lush green life that thrives in the heated days.

Liam had called up Louis for a late lunch break in knowing that the lad wouldn’t mind kicking about – especially for the mean arse street dogs native to the block.

“Sounds like a right time,” Louis intones sarcastically, a bit skittishly avoiding Liam’s eye.

Dully noting the behavior but not directly bothered, Liam continues on with his story: “Nah, mate, it was bloody ace. I mean, getting in a bit of a scuffle wasn’t planned, but Zayn was doting all over me the rest of the night.”

“Really?” Louis’s tone lifts amusedly, something on the subject apparently piquing his interest before he takes a bite of his hot dog.

Liam futilely attempts rucking his sleeves up higher because it’s hot with the sun’s active beating and he’d like to get his money’s worth out of his ink. “As much of a handful he’s proven to be, he’s a worrier, I think.”

Again Louis questions “Really?” in genuine inquiry – as if he knows something Liam doesn’t, something to counter the claim. And, again, Louis’s gait falls a bit oddly, but.

Brushing it off, figuring there’s just something on his friend’s mind, Liam reaffirms: “Yeah. He was quite bothered at the prospect of me fighting.” Not able to tame the grin heating his face, Liam quietens, “Real sweet to apologize and amuse me. It was cute.”

A ghastly choking noise scrapes out of Louis’s throat as he – get this – chokes on his food, and Liam smacks between his shoulder blades a few times as his immediate option to help. After a moment Louis coughs out gratitude.

“So,” Liam decides to change the subject in hopes of conversation flow picking up, “How’re you and Harry?”

One would think Louis spent a whole day in the sun with the shade his face heats to. “Uh, what?” he finally splutters.

Liam’s almost apologetic, but running into a flustered Louis is a rare occurrence, and Louis likes the attention anyway. “Harry. Y’know – the guy you pretend to not care for.”

“What about him?” Louis questions defensively, finally meeting Liam’s eyes.

“Just was wondering how far you’ve gotten in your mission to win him over,” Liam claims. There’s a pause before an idea spikes excitement to his neurons. “Hey, why don’t we all get together sometime? I’ve’nt ever properly gotten to know Zoe, and to be honest it kind of makes me feel like a shite friend –“

“No!” Louis protests, eyes wild as he clamps his mouth back down before – “I mean, it would just be awkward right now. But, yeah, definitely – you and Zo would get along right.”

“Okay,” Liam enunciates, growing irritated with Louis’s sour attitude. He glances at his watch in preparation to fib about needing to get back to his office. “Well –“

“Wait,” Louis sighs, drags a hand down his face, “’m sorry, Liam.”

Another silent second. Liam nods, offers a small smile and a teasing fist to his shoulder, which sparks a playfulness back into Louis’s eyes.

“So,” his friend smirks, “you’re planning on seeing Zayn tonight? What’re you cooking up?”

**

“Grilled Club sans bacon,” Harry presents his findings as he hands Zayn his food, settles into his rolling chair he’s placed in the corner of Zayn’s cubicle.

Zayn gave up long ago fast food burgers. Partly because he isn’t quite sure what exactly goes into their patties, and also because McDonald’s chicken sandwiches are pretty tasty anyway.

“Cheers, Haz,” Zayn raises the sandwich in salute, checks for pig anyway just to be sure.

“So you enjoy inciting riots in your free time?” Zoe jests as she leans back in her own perch on Zayn’s desk.

“His beauty could start wars,” Harry adds his witticism.

“I was just trying to crack Liam. Y’know, act irrationally jealous. And then it lead to some asshole trying to duel him,” Zayn reasons in the simplest of storytelling.

Harry snorts before jabbing at his salad from the shop upstairs. “Except you weren’t _acting_ jealous, you _were_ jealous.”

“Shut it,” is all Zayn can grumble, wads up a complimentary napkin to peg at Harry’s head.

The floor is relatively quiet for a Saturday, sunlight filtrating just as ever but no one taking notice in the novelty of it anymore. Zayn hasn’t grown immune, unappreciative, though, has decided on keeping his gifted bouquet here on his desk, the natural light just what it needs to sit and look pretty.

As if the flowers aren’t enough to draw a blush to Zayn’s face, beside the flowers rests the bumblebee nameless. Looking at the two together with the Alexander McQueen scarf delicately arranged around, Zayn is surprised nobody has commented on the shrine he’s inadvertently built for Liam.

Tummy traitorously stirring at the thought of what it means to have received gifts from the man, Zayn is about ready to feign ill and head to the restroom so as to splash his face when Simone pops up from around his cubicle, shocking a little jump out of all three subordinates and simultaneously flushing the color from Zayn’s cheeks.

“I am just _loving_ your notes on this piece, Zayn,” Simone chirps vociferously, disturbing the quietude.

Harry placing a hand over his heart and exaggerating being surprised with wide eyes eggs a grin to Zayn’s face, which isn’t a problem since Simone won’t know any better what’s so funny. “Thank you,” he nods.

“When will you be seeing the man next?”

Zayn considers lying because his friends will make a fuss and tease him about it, but his boss is asking, and she’ll see the notes anyway. “Um, tonight, actually,” Zayn forces a smile, leans back in his chair with clasped hands, “he’s cooking dinner at his place.”

“Fabulous,” Simone articulates, seemingly not even paying attention as her eyes flicker elsewhere. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

Zayn nods again, braces himself for the impact of jibes.

But all that’s said is “Scared the hell out of me” by Zoe as she shoves a few fries in her mouth, pulls an exasperated face for Zayn to relate with.

“So what crazy shit are you gunna pull tonight, then?” Harry asks, no trace of maliciousness present. Just a health hippie with his organic lettuce.

And Zayn should’ve known there would be no nastiness to the conversation. His friends aren’t purposely hurtful, he just is ultra-sensitive to the _Liam_ subject. Which he will _not_ be contemplating in depth anytime soon whatsoever.

Blinking out of his locked and sealed brewing thoughts on Liam, Zayn focuses back on his display of roses, the plush, the scarf, all connoting a sense of giddiness, simple affection.

“I think I’ve got an idea.”

——

Zayn’s never been this far into the Upper West Side nor in an apartment so high in the air (even if only mid-rise). The exterior style is elegantly art deco, and the open floorplan of the lobby is modern with an ambiance welcoming, not clinical. He shouldn’t really be surprised, but – he landed a man living in the penthouse of a complex with a doorman and most definitely a concierge for fuck’s sake.

Heart picking up pace as ridiculous nerves set in, Zayn is simultaneously irked that he couldn’t have swung Liam as an _actual_ date and thankful that all traces of Liam will be gone in a week – his lavish living, charming personality, his all-around perfection that Zayn only stands as a smudge of mud up against.

He’s glad no one else is in the elevator with him because now he can avoid belittling gazes in the mirror he’s facing both from others and his self, instead focusing on the cardboard box once used to store files that is now filled with household items. Zayn’s proud to say he can find a bit of humor in the situation, at least, a snort scoffing its way out of him at the sight of teddy bears and superhero paraphernalia, not to mention the –

The elevator doors slide open to reveal a nicely spaced flat, minimalist, metalwork stairs reflecting each other diagonally to rise along the foyer walls left and right, coming together to form a ledge over Zayn’s head that surely leads to a loft. The door just to his right under the stairs is likely a coat closet, and the mirrored door to his left is peeped open slightly to reveal a wet room. To complete the foyer is a wide archway, two green houseplants standing tall either its side.

Before Zayn can even begin to wonder on the extravagance of Liam’s glass walls, the terrace beyond, he hears little claws tip-tapping his direction, a rather small black and white pooch yipping excitedly on its hind legs with its tongue out.

Zayn settles his box onto a stair step at chest level, crouches down with barely contained enthusiasm, breathless giggles to pet at the pup, its tongue trying the most to lick all over his face.

Just as Zayn reaches to grab at a dog tag he hears a “Loki?” being queried from right of the walled foyer, and a second later Liam strolls into Zayn’s view, hair nicely coiffed with a humorously, outrageousy X-rated apron portraying Batman’s bulges his attire.

“Zayn!” Liam’s curious wonder makes way for a wide smile and crinkling eyes, hands at his waist likely meant to serve as rest from hard work with the added benefit of making him look rather like – well, Batman.

Zayn thinks to offer a hello, but, “Some heroes still wear capes, eh?” And – _what the fuck?_ Honestly, why –

Liam lets out an easy bellow, cheeks shading a lovely crimson to run his hands over the damned apron, which only further adds to the scandalous nature of his appearance. “Yeah, um – it was a gift from me mates last Christmas.”

Relieved that his idiotic commentary blows over so easily, Zayn rises from his crouch, let’s his hand dangle for a sniffing Loki. “Hi.”

Smile softening, Liam murmurs a ‘ _hi_ ’ back, eyes so sweet – “I see you’ve met Loki?” he nods to the dog who’s taken to staring doe-eyed up at his company, “I told him to be expecting a new friend so that maybe he wouldn’t be surprised and rowdy when you finally got here, but…” Liam trails off, a shrug.

“Well I’m just as pleased to see him,” Zayn teases out a coo, smirks at Liam as he gives an exemplary scratch behind the pup’s ear, which rouses it back into a tap-dancing state, paws a blur.

Liam feigns disappointment, sports a moue as he steps closer to Zayn with a clench of the hand – as if he has to think twice about reaching out, not sure where their personal bubbles have gerrymandered. “And I suppose that’s all you’re pleased to see, yes?”

Taking the bait is easy enough. As so, Zayn pulls a pucker and crinkles his nose at his date with a tiny shake of the head to tease, rests his palm on Liam’s chest to lean into a chaste peck – because apparently that’s a _thing_ now. A kiss hello and a kiss goodbye, a –

Zayn cuts himself off before he’s forced to live with whatever pathetically quixotic melodrama his mind coins. After all, he gave up waxing decent poetry ages ago.

“And I _don’t_ suppose you’ll let me in on your entrée of choice?” Zayn’s arms naturally cross with a brow lift. And the tingling in his lips is still alive.

Liam’s mouth widens in an _O_ , eyes jerking to his left and behind. “Right! I’ve just got to finish up the meal, but I trust you can make yourself at home, yeah?” He’s already walking back off from where he came, patting his right thigh as cue for Loki to follow. “Nothing’s off limits.”

It’s not a minute later that Zayn is drooling over Liam’s white walls, wooden ceiling beams that give the flat just an edge of rustic vibes, and the _view_ , honestly –

Loki demands Zayn’s attention once again, pulling him out of his dazed veneration for the location, the apartment, _Liam_ to remind Zayn with a curious snout in Zayn’s cardboard box of knick-knacks that – yes, he has a job to do, and it doesn’t involve allowing rapture to build for the circumstances.

Winding Liam’s steps (not staircase, just steps protruding from a wall!) is rather daunting, Zayn finds – especially with a considerably cumbersome package on load, trying to hold the box to his left so as to place his feet properly. Once he’s firm on the second level, though, well – all that talk about ‘ _it’s the journey, not the destination_ ’ is deemed bullshit.

Zayn’s first confronted with Manhattan’s skyline, the fade between dusk and evening that’s too often missed with the blink of an eye. This high up one can see the gradation of shades so purely from indigo to violet to a lilac edging on apricot (because the sun doesn’t go down without a fight), towers like silhouettes of lighthouses, shining beacons to all those lost and weary. He swears city nightlife is a galaxy of stars all on their own just as hopeful wishes are lain to rest on both.

He also swears his favorite color isn’t purple and that he’ll stop trying for inspirational when all he’s been able to achieve is pretentious, but –

The pup is pawing at his leg again, whimpers tear-jerking, honestly. So Zayn takes in a deep breath, extricates his eyes from a view he’ll never be able to claim his own and sets his box on the _gorgeous_ dark, matte flooring to let Loki have a peek.

Once the dog has sussed out that there’s nothing detrimentally incriminating with what Zayn’s brought, Zayn grabs the first thing on top and wields it like a weapon set to conquer Liam’s master bedroom. And, really, Captain America’s shield in crocheted quilt form meshes nicely with Liam’s color scheme of maroon, black, white. But that’s only the first strike.

Five minutes later there are superhero plushies – Spiderman, the Captain, Hulk, the Joker, etc. – atop the new accent quilt footing Liam’s California King, a family of teddy bears ranging in size in the middle of his mini living area to the far right, a _Shrek_ and Minions poster right smack dab in the center of two window walls, a Knock-Knock Jokes book on his bedside table, a _Power Rangers_ rug haphazardly strewn in the right wing of Liam’s U-shaped floorplan – which looks to be a no-nonsense home office with a sleek desk and looming chair. And Zayn _may_ have gone a bit overboard in requesting the digital imaging team at work to photocopy his face into wall-sticker form, especially considering it was a bitch to flatten onto a clear shower curtain, but Zayn thinks the attraction fits quite well with the elderly-appraised floral scheme of Liam’s new bathroom towels, rugs, Kleenex boxes.

Zayn doesn’t know if he should be pleased at what he’s come up with or ashamed that all of it was somehow so readily available. Like crime scene one just can’t pull their eyes from, he captures a few shots on his phone before pocketing it and picking the box back up, braving the stairs to place his final home deco on the main level.

Nearly tripping over Loki and shrieking when the pup is inches from tumbling off the stairs, Zayn doesn’t sense Liam’s approach until the man is right in front of him, concerned and breathless. “Are you okay, Zayn? I heard a scream.”

Quite intrigued with Liam’s sleek stereo system, Zayn can barely scold “You should be ashamed of yourself letting Loki run up and down those death stairs” before he’s to the left of a granite fireplace, eyeing two speakers that bookend a table with an iHome, DVD player, and satellite tv box resting on top. Running his fingers over the finery like a child in a candy shop, Zayn passes to the right of the fireplace, layout of tall speakers and a glorified coffee table mirroring the left side with the exception of a CD player spanning this table’s surface.

“He’s a big boy, Zayn,” Liam assures as he picks up Loki and holds the dog to his chest.

“Is that Katy Perry?” Zayn digresses distractedly from their back and forth. He doesn’t wait for an answer, though, finding the button to put _One of the Boys_ into rotation and skipping through the tracks until he recognizes the opening notes of _Hot n Cold_ play out.

Snickering lightly at the fact that Liam has the album at all, Zayn tosses a teasing smirk at Liam. Not really one to let things go, though, he picks up, “Loki nearly fell off the stairs, Liam.”

The man merely shrugs, pets down Loki’s back. “It’s happened before, and it’ll likely happen again.”

Gasp drowned out by Katy’s voice, Zayn’s eyes bulge with enough dramatism to let Liam know he’s appalled by the statement. “Liam!”

“What’s that?” Liam nods his head toward the box Zayn brought with him. Because apparently they’re taking turns at avoiding an argument.

“It’s our plant child, Liam,” Zayn informs haughtily, biting his tongue so as not to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He can feel his jaw twitch, but he’s advanced too far into his scheme to blow his cover now.

Liam walks his way to the box at the foot of the stairs, picks up the vegetation to exam it and lets Loki down to scamper off. “It’s a cactus.”

“Yes, it is,” Zayn crosses his arms over his chest, “and you are going to take care of it.”

Faced scrunched adorably into confusion, Liam’s features gradually brighten until he’s beaming wide, crinkles prominent. “I’ve always wanted to try my hand at gardening. I have those two houseplants by the door, but they practically live on their own.”

Floored by Liam actually liking the gag gift, Zayn turns back around to grab his bearings, scan his eyes over Liam’s CD collection. Justin Timberlake, Drake –

“Dinner’s ready, babe. Come sit down and I’ll get us started,” Liam – _goddammit_ – automatically draws Zayn’s attention back. He’s still smiling softly, studying the mini cactus as he walks his way back into the kitchen.

And acid is working its way up Zayn’s throat. Because Liam is far too kind to have such petty tricks pulled on him. But even though Zayn’s past denial of the revelation, what’s truly sickening is that he’s still planning on going through with driving a perfectly innocent man mad. For an article he was never entirely sold on in the first place.

Zayn resolves to let any callous quips dissipate for the night before they can even be conjured.

Setting himself down at a glass dinner table, he fiddles with the black place cloth, tries to cut his eyes away from Liam who’s piddling around in the kitchen, watering the baby cactus. He can’t quite match the aroma to what Liam has cooking, but he recognizes potato at least.

Not a minute later Liam is rounding the bar to set the cactus as a centerpiece, eyes so bright when they connect with Zayn’s. “Really, thank you, Zayn. It’s lovely.”

His tongue is held hostage by his nerves, features no doubt coloring in reaction to the praise. And his gut clenches because he doesn’t deserve it. Not even Liam’s palm gentling against his jaw can hone a sense of comfort this time. Zayn sighs into it anyway.

After a moment Liam pulls away, checks his watch to announce, “The game should be starting about now,” before grabbing the remote on the bar and powering on his flat screen (Which is 72 inches, but who’s counting, anyway?). “You just relax, little bird, while I get your plate ready.”

Zayn’s eyes settle on the t.v., camera giving a panorama of wild Knicks fans with painted stomachs instead of shirts. He’ll admit he’s rather intrigued with the action already being captured on the screen, and he doesn’t even notice Liam’s presence until a plate is being set in front of him.

“As you can see here,” Liam puts on a professional voice as if presenting a masterpiece on the cooking network, “we have the classic potato mashed with a bit of garlic for a nice flavor and a topping of parsley to finish it off. Next we’ve got the traditional green bean untouched by seasoning because it’s perfect just the way it is.”

Zayn is trying to hold in laughter as Liam’s presenting, too fond of the dork that he managed to get a date with. But as his eyes land on the main course, well –

“I don’t eat pork.”

Liam cuts off abruptly, mouth drawing the _O_ of confusion it’s so good at as his brows scrunch together.

“I’m sorry. I’m Muslim, like,” Zayn hurries in hopes of minimizing the offense. “I can just eat around it,” he concludes, waves his hands as if to brush his initial assertion away.

“Shit,” Liam mumbles, pivots to place the dish on the bar to his right before facing Zayn again with clasped hands and a bitten lip. “I’m so sorry, Zayn –“

“No,” Zayn shakes his head emphatically, stands from his seat to hold his palms forward in conciliation, “I should have told you.”

A displeased noise garbles its way past Liam’s lips as he too shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to apologize for your customs, Zayn. I should have known, anyway –“

Realizing this sob fest won’t get either of them very far, Zayn takes it upon himself to reach out to Liam, wrap fingers around a tanned forearm. “There’s no way you could have known for sure without asking, babe. It was such a sweet gesture – you cooking for me, and I’m appreciative nonetheless.”

Liam allows his features to settle as he smooths his palms up and down Zayn’s arms, the heat of it felt even through the boy’s gaudy, crème sweater. After a moment of low exhales, Liam insists, “At least let me take you out, then.”

“Don’t be silly,” Zayn’s nose scrunches with the playful tone, “I’m sure I can find something here just fine.”

Sturdy arms are wound around Zayn’s shoulders now, Liam tucking his chin to eye Zayn easily. “No, I want to treat you, little bird. You can pick or I will.” White teeth flash a grin at Zayn to ease the stubborn proclamation.

Zayn rolls his eyes in a tease, sighing dramatically as he wraps his arms around Liam’s waist, presses them closer together. “Well I guess I do know a pretty sick place.”

“Yeah?” eyebrows lift in genuine interest.

“Yeah,” Zayn murmurs, already a bit lost in Liam’s gaze even before they meet half way for a drawn out kiss, sweet and slow. “ _Or_ ,” Zayn continues when they finally draw back, noses nudging, “we could just skip the meal altogether.”

Liam chuckles heartily, allows Zayn to nip at his bottom lip once before he’s breaking the kiss to place a quick swat on Zayn’s arse. “Be _have_ ,” he warns, but there’s still laughter in his rouge cheeks and twinkling eyes.

——

Zayn wishes he could claim surprised that Liam parks in the garage next to a sleek, orange, _actual_ Bugatti. It’s so impractical for New York that Zayn can only assume it’s of pretentious wealth meant to ascertain status. It does its job, at least.

The ride to _Kashmir Cuisine of Pakistan_ takes about fifteen minutes from Liam’s complex, but Zayn wishes it were longer with the high he gains on the motorcycle, beeping traffic all around, harsh wind, bright lights. He’s beaming by the time Liam’s parked outside the hole-in-the-wall joint, lips spread so wide his cheeks will surely ache soon, but for once he doesn’t even care if he looks like a complete idiot.

“What’s gotten into you?” Liam questions, relaxed against his ride (yet again. They’ve really got to work on that.), eyes almost coy.

Zayn steps closer to pat the seat of the Ducati. “I fucking love your bike.”

Liam cracks a smirk at that, nods his head lazily. “Yeah, Hadley has that effect.”

“Hadley?” is all Zayn can ask, eyebrow lifting.

“Or Antonio,” Liam shrugs, “whatever it’s feelin’.”

After a moment and a nod, Zayn declares, “I want one.”

“Well, you can have a go on this baby whenever you want.”

Zayn softens his smile, exhilaration fading into a gentle joy like the break of a wave. “C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the entrance of Kashmir, “’m starved.”

A smile is offered in acknowledgement, hands stuffing in front pockets as Liam stands tall. “Are you trying to educate me,” Liam inquires on the choice of fare, then nods to a neon sign in the window reading ‘ _nice and spicey_ ’, “or kill me?”

The purse of Zayn’s lips is mainly to hide a laugh, and the automatic eye-roll helps the façade as well. “Both, Mr. Payne.” He grabs at Liam’s elbow to pull him towards the restaurant.

“Right,” Liam starts, feet still dragging behind Zayn, “I’ve been meaning to ask where you’re from.”

Zayn stops in the middle of the street – New York traffic be damned – to arch an eyebrow at Liam.

“Shit, sorry,” Liam curses, nudges Zayn forward again with a palm to his spine, “I meant your accent. Yorkshire, yeah?”

“Bradford,” Zayn supplies as they _finally_ enter into Kashmir. A short breath later Zayn decides to fill the void of uncertainty that’s permeated their bubble. “’m Pakistani as well on ‘m dad’s side.”

Liam nods, seemingly unsure on whether or not he’s fucked up their rapport with his idiotic wording. “Well I’ve never been here, so you better not steer me wrong on the menu.”

“We’ll keep it simple this time,” Zayn assures before he steps up to the counter to order, accepts Liam’s attempt to recourse the topic.

There’s a new guy at the register that looks to be in his late teens, a bit too obvious in his eavesdropping. But Zayn doesn’t much care. “Can we get an order of chicken curry and some veg samosas? Ask Danny for Zayn’s seasoning on half, please.”

The kid nods, doesn’t falter on the customized instructions, at least. “’s that all?”

Zayn eyes Liam in offering, Liam sidling up just behind him to rest his palm on the younger’s lower back in acknowledgement. “Just water, thank you.”

“Two waters, and that’ll be it,” Zayn reaffirms.

Cash register noise. “$15.27.”

Zayn reaches for his wallet, but Liam grabs his wrist before he can pull it out. “This one’s on me,” Liam declares.

“You’ve got to stop spoiling me, Li,” Zayn defies, “Let me get this for you. It’s the least I can do.” He allows a soft half-smile, is sincere in his wishes.

“Don’t think I won’t pay you back for this, Zayn,” Liam relents grudgingly, eyes his date faux-sternly.

Zayn can only sigh, pat over a pec. “You’re too good to me as is, bumblebee.”

Liam’s nose wrinkles adorably, and Zayn has to pull his attention back to the employee. Credit is due that the kid remains professional, and Zayn can only hope he doesn’t go blabbering off to the guys in the back about the disgusting duo making eyes at each other in the front.

“That’ll be just a bit,” the kid (they don’t have nametags, damnit) informs as Zayn runs his card through the reader, “I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

A nod Zayn offers, eyes Liam to jerk his head toward the closest table. Actual words are apparently overrated right now, so the two wait in silence as their cups are filled with water.

It’s a bit crowded in the joint, but that just means more business for his pals in the back and a reason for Zayn to look elsewhere while he gathers his bearings. A group of five guys is pigging out behind them and to the left, and Zayn can’t help but to admire the shine of the glass window that allows him to view them.

Liam’s seemingly comfortable with their quiet, though, fiddling around with the salt and pepper at the end of the table, humming to himself easily.

So Zayn takes the opportunity to eye the man’s physique, black Henley doing wonders for all of the defined –ceps of Liam’s upper torso. And the stubble along his jaw is almost scruffy, making him appear more soft and cuddly than harsh, his lips so _pink_ –

“What are you looking at, little bird?” Liam taunts, smirk sharp as he purposely flexes his chest, arms to lean elbows on the table.

Zayn won’t allow himself to be embarrassed. It’s only natural to want a taste, anyway. “That mouth. Imagining how easily you could pin me to a wall, fuck into me.” He’s leaned back casually, tearing at bits of his straw’s paper to give his hands something to do. He knows he looks like a nonchalant fucker.

Liam doesn’t even twitch, just eyes Zayn. “It _is_ our fourth date, isn’t it?” he asks, but it’s rhetorical. They both know.

“Long past due, I’d say,” Zayn inputs, leans forward as well to level Liam’s stare.

There’s a smirk fighting the even set of Liam’s lips, Zayn can tell. “Maybe if you behave the rest of the night we can see about going back to my place.”

Zayn would be high-tailing it out the door if he thought Liam were serious. As it is, with the sense that his date is merely playing with him, initiating their bedroom games early, Zayn hardly resists an eye-roll. 

He leans in closer for effect, hushes, “Let’s not act like we both don’t know how I set you off, Li. It’s a wonder you’re able to lie to yourself so easily in acting like _you’re_ the one that’s ‘well-behaved’. Everyone sees the way you eye me up, how possessively you handle me.” Zayn settles back, the space between their lips having diminished to mere inches. “Be a good lad for me tonight and I’ll see about finally allowing you to let loose on me.”

A sort of impenetrable bubble seems to have solidified itself around the pair. The air is almost heavy with intensity, hard to swallow. And Liam’s eyes are dark as ever, unmoving from Zayn’s. Because a nerve was definitely struck.

“You’re playing at a very dangerous game, little bird,” Liam finally states, tone steady, stance firm. Like a snake coiling up to strike.

“Order for Malik!”

And just like that, their bubble pops a leak. The raw energy drains slowly but surely until both men are sitting up straight once again. Zayn doesn’t know how to feel about their exchange. On the one hand it’s pretty much set in stone that he’ll be getting some tonight. But on the other it seems their relationship has gained depth. And Zayn can’t have that – not when it’s all for an article.

Zayn allows Liam to thumb his chin, press an intent-filled kiss to his lips before he’s adjusting his burgeoning erection subtly, standing to claim the food he payed for.

On his way back to the table Liam is practically vibrating in his seat, a golden retriever trying to sit still for his master, knowing he’ll be rewarded if he does. Zayn didn’t actually mean for Liam to be _that_ kind of good, but. He can’t contain the chuckle as he takes his seat across from Liam, presents their meal.

“What?” Liam inquires curiously, manages to tone down his animorphism enough to side-eye Zayn.

“Nothing, Bumblebee,” Zayn coos, lips tugging up gently.

Liam almost manages to scorch him with a glare, but the real fire is ablaze in his cheeks, and Zayn’s uttered the pet name often enough to realize that Liam actually likes it.

Zayn busies himself with setting up their meal, saffron sending his senses into a meltdown because it’s been too long since he’s had a bit of Danny’s seasonings.

After Liam manages to tame his blush, he’s salivating for sustenance as well. “So what’ve we got here, then? Did you ask for a special dish for me?” It’s teasing and it’s confident, and Zayn loves both when emanating from the man.

“I’ve got half of the curry a bit more spicy for meself,” Zayn shrugs, begins spooning at the portion of the chicken and rice that’s darker with flavor. “But all of the samosas should be regular.”

“Can I try yours?” Liam requests as he tears to get the generic plastic fork out of its baggie confines.

Zayn spears a bite of the chicken, takes a moment to close his eyes and savor it, tries not to audibly moan. It’s definitely got a kick. “You sure you can handle it? Really is spicy, babe.”

Thick eyebrow pull together endearingly as Liam sports an offended moue. “I’m a grown boy, and I can probably handle more than you think, Zayn.”

“Oh, really?” Zayn’s own brows lift in a challenge as he pushes his side of the foam container toward Liam, “Show me what you got, then, _big boy_.”

To his credit, Liam really does handle the fiery flavor well enough – is surprised at first by the intensity, but he nods his head in approval, is able to taste the flavor past the heat. “It’s ace,” Liam confirms his delight, turns the dish back around toward Zayn as he opens up the container of samosas and takes a bite out of one, “I wish I could cook like that.”

Zayn’s much too pleased to admit that the man can try something new and admire it so readily. “You’ve just got to have the right spices, really. Maybe I’ll teach you sometime.”

“Yeah?” Liam asks, eyes alight.

A moment to reassess, Zayn restructuring his thought process. He shouldn’t be tying himself to Liam. But this is just mundane, dispensable chatter. Not meant to be followed through with. “Yeah.”

Liam carries the bulk of the conversation after Zayn’s relapse into his own head, but Zayn doesn’t mind listening to Liam talk about his family, about how they moved to the states from Wolverhampton just before Liam would enroll in high school, how his sister is getting married in just a couple months and all of his immediate family has found a place in Staten Island. How he misses England, longs for _home_ every once in a while, but that the ache’s just a dull throb now and is soothed when he’s able to go back for the holidays.

Zayn can definitely relate to being worried for sisters and homesickness. And he wants to hear more, is the thing. The cadence of Liam’s voice and his easy rhetoric makes for great stories, but there’s also profundity to his ramblings. And all of it makes Zayn want to confide in Liam as well, tell him about his huge family back in Bradford and how just a phone call every few days isn’t enough, how all of it’s too much sometimes and he wonders if moving to New York will actually pay off.

He wants to know Liam. So he stands up abruptly, jars the table a bit and rudely discontinues Liam’s narration of adopting their family dog to mumble a “bathroom” before he’s stumbling his way to the back of the restaurant, past the curtain pulled on his left to hide the kitchen and into a horribly lit closet that few would dare to label a bathroom. It’s just a sink, toilet, and trash can scrunched into approximately 20 square feet of space.

Not that he should complain, really: At least there’s clean, running water and a door to offer privacy. So he splashes his face and avoids his reflection. He needs to crack Liam before the man can worm his way any further into Zayn’s life.

Zayn steps out of the restroom renewed and ready to drive his unfortunate date insane. Except as soon as he’s entered back into the tabled area Liam is casting a genuinely concerned gaze over him, warm eyes wide and imploring.

“Are you alright, Zayn?” Liam stands in nurture, caresses Zayn’s elbow to guide him back into his seat.

“Top notch,” Zayn plasters a smile to his face as he avoids the man’s gaze.

Liam doesn’t speak for a moment, obviously is wary of Zayn’s response, but he moves on anyway. “Well don’t let me horde all the food.”

“Oh, I’ve got to be careful,” Zayn dramatizes, “If I eat too much you might start calling me fat.”

A moment of pause.

It was a reach to try, but he did so anyway because he read something about guys hating when their love interest discusses weight. But he sounds like a fucking idiot, and Zayn is embarrassed of himself. While it’s just an act that will get the job done, Zayn’s not okay with sounding like a complete fool when he’s got to live with himself.

“Oh, no,” Liam eats up Zayn’s arsehole comment, “I find no purpose in fat-shaming. Maybe because I tend to hold chub easily, but…,” he trails off, purses his lips as if he’s working the best angle to combat Zayn’s attitude. “Don’t think carrying weight is a bad thing. Not that I believe you’d be able to hold much if you tried. You look beautiful now, and you’d look beautiful in whatever size.”

Zayn’s been silent, allowed Liam to respond while mildly suffering in his own shame. “Fuck,” he finally mutters, lets his head fall into his hands, “It was a shit joke. I didn’t mean it, and I’m sorry. Can we just forget I ever said that?”

Thick fingers find their way to Zayn’s cheek, run along his jaw to tilt Zayn’s gaze toward Liam. “Are you sure you’re okay, little bird?”

There’s a heavy sigh and flutter of lashes as Zayn allows himself to nuzzle into Liam’s hold. “I will be.”

Liam nods, thankfully goes back to spooning rice into his mouth.

It gives Zayn room to shake off the dregs of humiliation. Then he goes back to the drawing board and decides that tonight _really_ won’t be the night to pull anything else batshit. He already redecorated nearly all of Liam’s second floor, after all.

Thinking about the posters from hell all over Liam’s bedroom, Zayn doesn’t know if he should laugh or beg forgiveness. He goes with the second option: “Hey, Li? Can I show you something?”

His date relishes the attention, smiles nice and big as he encourages Zayn with a nod.

After shoveling the rest of the curry into his mouth and grabbing the last samosa, Zayn stands up and reaches for Liam’s hand, momentarily ignoring Liam’s bemused gaze to guide the lad toward the back of the restaurant, down the hall.

The purple curtain doesn’t actually do much to close off the rambunctiousness of the kitchen from the rest of the joint, but when Zayn draws it back it’s like he’s entered into a new world, saffron as fragrant as ever, the temperature up a few degrees, a group of guys hopping around each other to stir up something on the stove or get a better look at the tiny telly they’ve got stationed on the far wall.

Zimran notices them first, grows a lopsided grin and offers a slap of the hand. “Hey, bro. Haven’t seen you around lately.” He then directs his gaze to Liam, sticks out his hand in greeting. “I’m Zimran.”

Liam leans into Zayn’s back to reach the boy’s hand, gives it a sturdy shake. “Liam. Nice to meet you.”

Most of the lads are respecting boundaries and resisting bombarding, but Danny comes out from behind Nabil and a newer guy to slap at Zayn’s back with a wide grin. “Woh tumhara pyaara hai?” he flits his eyes to Liam.

Instinctually, Zayn steps back to distance himself from the direct threat, but he just ends up falling into Liam’s chest, which doesn’t exactly help matters much. It’s just that he wasn’t expecting Urdu. “Chup kar,” he mutters after he has a hold on his creeping blush, curls into Liam subtly.

Danny – because he’s a decent lad – doesn’t press further, just lets out a rough bark of laughter and then greets Liam (in _English_ ) and invites the two to lounge in the kitchen and watch the Knicks game with them.

Which was the reason Zayn brought Liam back here anyway. To watch the game that Zayn inadvertently made Liam miss. Not to meet Zayn’s close friends.

So Zayn let’s everyone slap Liam on the back, shoot rapid-fire questions at him about basketball, the stats and players. Liam fits just fine into the group, leans against the counter to laugh at something Austin says and counter Nabil’s conclusion on who will win the finals.

Seeing as he’s left everyone in good hands, Zayn allows himself to sink into the background, quieten the surrounding noise until he can hear his own thoughts more clearly, observe the scene before him play out as if he’s looking through a glass window.

And on the forefront of his mind is the war between whether or not he’ll be able to go through with fucking with Liam’s head. He had made positive progress towards an article by getting between the man and his sports as well as by sabotaging his apartment. And he’s been quite annoyingly clingy as well. But isn’t he just reversing all the developments by leading Liam to a game he wouldn’t otherwise see and giving him space to socialize?

In the end, with Liam’s sharp giggles and bright cheeks just on the outskirts of his consciousness, Zayn decides he’ll start anew the next time he sees Liam with a fresh, tailored game plan. But for now he’ll enjoy himself.

——

Zayn feels relatively blithe as he enters Liam’s apartment, troubles lightweight on his back after the high of speeding through nightlife Manhattan. Loki’s yipping at his feet, and the view of the cityscape below is breathtaking. A rainbow of lights illuminating the darkness that the sun left behind.

“I want to pay you some attention, little bird,” Liam starts as he closes the door behind them, soothes circles into Zayn’s lower back, “but can I catch the game highlights first?”

Unbothered, really, Zayn nods and traipses his way to Liam’s vast white sectional, the leather smooth and rather comfy against his worn muscles. The crash from an artificial high is always trying, and it’s rather a feat to toe off his Chelseas.

Liam putters around with his swanky gadgetry before turning on the t.v. and standing a mere five feet away from it to lend his attention to ESPN.

Calling Loki over seems much more appealing to Zayn, so he does so, fonds gently over the tiny pup as he runs his hand down Loki’s back, lush black fur.

An indeterminable amount of time passes to prompt in Zayn’s nodding off, the low chatter of sports commentators and the crackle of the fireplace (that Zayn wasn’t even aware of Liam kindling) a muted background and the perfect lull into respite.

At some point Liam slips down onto the sofa next to Zayn, secures an arm around Zayn’s shoulders that the younger leans into until he’s got his right leg thrown over Liam’s, arm tucked over a firm chest and nose nuzzled to the crook of Liam’s neck.

“You sure are sweet when you’re sleepy,” Liam chuckles low in Zayn’s ear, smooths his palm down Zayn’s spine until thick fingers are gently massaging the small of his back.

Zayn can only hum in response, aroused by the piney citrus clinging to Liam’s throat, shirt collar. Somewhere in a far corner of his mind he’s able to grasp that pine and citrus shouldn’t overlap to stimulate both his olfactory and taste receptors, but that doesn’t stop his tongue from darting out to flick just under Liam’s jaw.

Liam barely flinches, takes the attack in stride to simply lean back further into the couch, spread his thighs wider, deftly work calloused fingertips under the knit of Zayn’s sweater to press Zayn’s hips heavier to his leg.

Encouraged and awaking from his stupor, Zayn regains a bit of muscle control to roll his stiffening dick down onto Liam, let his man feel it twitch as he suctions his lips just over the hollow of Liam’s throat, tongue laving to soothe any sting. A few nips are thrown in for good measure as Liam’s hand comes up to caress the nape of Zayn’s neck, sharp gasps making Zayn want to grind harder into Liam’s sturdy thigh.

“Hey, hey, slow down, baby,” Liam coos, rubs his warm palm under Zayn’s sweater to rest between his shoulder blades as Liam’s other hand fixes itself on Zayn’s jaw.

Zayn hadn’t actually been aware that pitched whimpers were running rampant past his lips, but as soon as he pulled his mouth away from Liam’s neck he had to assess his mark, kitten-lick over the abused skin. And that had let his vocals run free with noise, apparently.

Presently, Zayn takes a deep breath, sturdies his left hand to the couch and the right just over Liam’s heart, begins maneuvering himself onto Liam’s lap, which Liam helps him with by trailing his hand from Zayn’s jaw to the backside of his thigh to pull Zayn over both of his own legs to settle on top of them.

“Slow,” Zayn consents, locks his eyes with Liam’s. And he does move leisurely, fingers kneading over Liam’s pecs before strolling their way to the back of his neck to nestle themselves in the shorter locks at his nape.

Looking into Liam’s eyes the whole while, the man is solid and assured, but his eyes are wide and a bit hazy. Zayn imagines he looks much the same, ruffled by a bit of sleep left in his features and mouth blushing.

They both know that they’ve already gained too much momentum to gently roll to a standstill; Stopping now would be disastrous – bruised limbs and a mess of an intersection. So they’ll have to settle with not making it past the green light and instead too far over the crosswalk. And that’s possibly the worst analogy Zayn has ever conjured, but –

He kisses Liam then, determined yet gentle as he frames a top lip and allows his nose to rest against Liam’s. And Liam opens up in response, snakes his tongue out to trail Zayn’s bottom lip just as his hands grip hips.

It’s sloppy, really, with both lads looking to gain the upper hand. But Zayn loves it, loves the pressure of paws squeezing his arse and teeth tugging at his lip and bright eyes wide and dark and wanting. Not to mention, Zayn can feel Liam’s bulge pressed to his arse, and the grunts uttered every time he rocks down against Liam are dangerously wanton.

Soon Zayn won’t be able to hold off longer, will _have_ to get Liam into his mouth, but for now he takes the time to map out the ridges and contours of Liam’s shoulders, chest. Lazily undo the top few buttons of Liam’s Henley just to offer a cheeky smirk and get the same in return. He thumbs over pert nipples and elicits a sharp yip from Liam, the latter making quick work of punishment by landing a playful swat over Zayn’s bum.

“You just can’t get enough of my arse, hmm?” Zayn taunts, cuts through the silence as he rises on his knees slightly, pushes back into the cup of Liam’s hot palms with bold intentions.

Liam just tugs Zayn back down, ruts up and swivels his hips without breaking eye contact. “I would watch that mouth, little bird,” he lifts a thumb to press against Zayn’s lower lip, drag it down lingeringly, “Only my good lads get special attention.”

Inexplicably, a whine chokes its way out of Zayn’s throat, distorts his features into displeasure and pushes him to cocoon into Liam’s embrace, snuffle into his neck for the intimacy of skin to skin contact. And he doesn’t know which further instigated the awful flush creeping down his neck – the type of play Liam’s words conveyed or how he reacted to them.

“Zayn,” Liam calls his notice, calm and stern as he removes his feverish hands from Zayn’s backside, helps the crème sweater to find it place covering Zayn once again. “I need you to look at me, love.”

Still trying to recover from the sudden onslaught of emotion, Zayn just clenches his fists tighter into Liam’s shirt from where they’re serving as a barrier between chests, squeezes his eyes a bit tighter and presses his forehead into Liam’s collarbone.

Mercifully, the older boy allows Zayn to come back at his own pace, offers soothing touches up and down his arms and gentle noises Zayn thinks a mother might sound to reassure their offspring. (Which is a bit odd considering the situation, but.)

Eventually Zayn raises his head and lets his hands fall lower against Liam’s stomach, fingers aching a bit from the release of their tight hold on Liam’s shirt. And a new blush is eating its way at his cheeks now because he’s a bit shy to meet Liam’s gaze that’s hotly observing his expressions, slowly creeping up in degree to where it’s burning a hole through Zayn’s skin. Or at least that’s what his mind plays it up to be. All he can do to avoid confrontation is turn his cheek, focus on Liam’s inked forearm.

A tender kiss is pressed briefly just below the jut of Zayn’s cheekbone, and Zayn can’t help but lean into it slightly. But he’s only left with tingling skin once Liam pulls back to get down to business. “We can stop now, Zayn. We don’t have to take it any farther until we’re both ready.”

Zayn only puckers a pout at that, not wanting to quit but not knowing exactly what to say to explain what came over him.

Liam tries a new tactic: “Have you ever played out a scene before, Zayn? We don’t even have to go there, but I know you’ve reacted positively to dom/sub overtones before, so that’s why I initiated it.”

“I’ve never – I don’t…” is what Zayn fumbles with, sighing deeply because he sounds like a fool.

“That’s alright, baby,” Liam coos with his hand running up and down Zayn’s spine over the sweater, a coaxing pressure almost. He seems to understand what Zayn was getting at. “Just let it out, yeah? It’s just me.”

That shouldn’t strike a cord inside of Zayn. They’ve barely known each other four days, after all. But Zayn resonates with Liam’s point anyway, feels like the man is one of the more accepting, genial souls he’s ever met. So he leans in to share a slow, supple kiss, hands pressing flat to Liam’s waist.

Righting himself after a moment to breathe in and out, Zayn articulates, “I’ve never explicitly defined any sort of BDSM scene with anyone. Like, aspects may have been incorporated, but…”

“That’s fine,” Liam assures, rubs soothing circles into Zayn’s jaw, “We don’t have to put a definition to it. Just whatever you want and are comfortable with.”

“Okay,” Zayn enunciates, eyes still downcast, finger fidgeting over Liam’s stomach, taking note for the first time of the thicker skin around it.

A moment flits by. “Do you want to tell me what you were feeling when you closed off?” Liam questions softly, head tilting to try and secure the boy’s gaze.

Again Zayn goes for Liam’s buttons, locks eyes on wispy chest hairs because – _yes_. “Um,” he starts distractedly, “I just felt really vulnerable, like. I didn’t want to think about not pleasing you, maybe?” his explanation ends in a lilt, a question as he finally meets Liam’s thoughtful eyes.

Liam’s features soften in a bit of understanding. “No, Zayn. You could never disappoint. Nothing you’d do would be wrong.”

Falling back into Liam’s chest is the most natural thing Zayn’s done all night, muffling an “Okay” against Liam’s shoulder.

“Can I ask where we’re at?” Liam requests after a minute or two of relative silence, fire dancing still and ESPN talk dulled. “We can do whatever you want, babe. Cuddle, sleep, play a bit of Fifa or summat,” he chuckles at the end.

“Um,” Zayn raises his head to flick his eyes to Liam’s, “I think I want to be good for you.”

“Yeah?” Liam lifts a brow, tugs up a smile, “you’re being just perfect right now.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, the movement allowing the release of an unbelievable amount of tension. “I want to be your good lad,” he mutters, bounces his arse down over a half-hard cock to drive home the point.

“Alright, alright,” Liam tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a groan in that his cock is definitely perking up with interest. “Stay still so I don’t bust, sweetheart.”

Predictably, Zayn only smirks mischievously at that, grinds just a bit slower for a pause.

“ _Zayn_ ,” Liam warns, delivers a rather harsh smack to the lad’s backside.

An exhale hiccups out of Zayn as his brows furrow. “You can’t just spank me whenever I’m naughty, Liam.” His arms nearly cross in defiance, but he imagines Liam would merely eat it up.

Slightly affronted, Liam’s eyes widen, tone daring, “Oh, is that so? Because I swear you just admitted to being _naughty_ ,” he emphasizes, eyes unyielding, “And it seems to get you back on track. I thought you said you wanted to be my sweet boy.”

“I do,” Zayn croons, stuck between disgruntled and submissive, “but spanking?” he gives a dubious look.

Liam settles into a bemused smirk, leaning up to mouth at Zayn’s jaw, incite a gasp. “I believe you like it, little bird. Am I right?” he whispers, pulls back for an answer.

Flaming cheeks stand as response in lieu of words, Zayn dropping his chin.

“You know the stoplight system? Green for go, yellow for caution, red for stop. If you feel like you won’t like something, just tell me yellow or red and we can pause to work over it. Alright, baby?”

Zayn nods, lifts his chin and presses his smile briefly to Liam’s lips, excited to get going. “I’m green, so can we go?”

One of Liam’s hands cups the nape of Zayn’s neck, the other finding its way to fiddle just under the lip of Zayn’s jeans, and he really can’t help but chuckle at the lad’s eagerness. “Yes. Cheers, Zaynie.”

Another kiss for good luck is administered, Liam settling back against the couch and allowing Zayn to run free with his antics, the latter dipping to lick back over his handiwork at the hollow of Liam’s neck before kissing down wiry chest hair.

Zayn idly works over Liam’s skin, shuffles to his knees slowly and tugs up Liam’s Henley to finally get a look at his stomach. A garbled whimper resonates throughout the open space, but Zayn hardly takes note, plants his hands on Liam’s jean-clad thighs to watch Liam lift the shirt over his head and toss it to the end of the couch.

Zayn can’t help mewling again – this time for attention. Craning his neck upward and puckering his lips is met with an amused smirk from Liam who doesn’t dare jibe, just lets Zayn steal a peck. “That’s it, babe. Let me hear you.”

Urged on, Zayn can’t help suctioning his mouth just below Liam’s naval, fingers curling into Liam’s hips as he swirls his tongue over the succulent skin in his reach, raspy hairs caught up in the mix, and a needy groan sounds as he leans back slightly to get an eye of Liam’s happy trail. He’s such a sucker for body hair it’s almost worrying.

And the only thing grounding him is Liam’s palm at the back of his skull, soft encouragements.

Not exactly thinking over what he’s aiming to articulate, Zayn searches for Liam’s eyes, rushes, “I might want to call you ‘Daddy,” as soon as Liam’s gaze connects.

Immediately blood rushes to the peak of Zayn’s cheeks (which, honestly, how much blood does he have if he’s already flushed and hard as a rock?) but Liam dismisses embarrassment quickly. “That’s very brave of you to admit that for me, little bird.” His voice is soft and reassuring as his fingers curve to fit against Zayn’s chin. “And my cock really likes the idea as well.”

An airy giggle bubbles out of Zayn’s throat, Liam’s joke serving its purpose to relax them both further. And without further ado, Zayn focuses back on worshipping Liam’s torso, straightens up tall to kiss gently over each of Liam’s blushing nipples before he _finally_ fits his hand over the bulge of Liam’s solid dick.

On his knees is where Zayn thrives. And the longer he’s positioned as such, Liam’s thighs encasing him, he can feel the confidence rushing back into him. It’s something about being able to hold someone’s vulnerability in the palm of his hand (literally), witness the stuttering underside of a jaw and the overall loss of control.

And the fact that he’ll be able to unravel sure, poised, ardent Liam Payne sends a power rush straight through Zayn, which pools deep in his belly, accumulates in his balls.

Zayn continues to pet over Liam’s cock, locking eyes with him for the older to offer a shallow nod. Leaning forward is almost involuntary. But Zayn trusts his more primal urges, noses his way from one side of Liam’s tummy, across his sweet pooch and to the other side, moves back center to whine over and place open-mouthed kisses just above Liam’s waistband.

“That’s such a sweet boy,” Liam murmurs, eyes bright and endeared with a gentle twist of his cherry lips.

For all the bravado Zayn’s amassed, Liam’s compliment still calls a blush anew to his countenance. Zayn tucks his chin and preens under the man’s attention.

An abrupt vibration shocks a flinch out of Zayn, Liam going stock-still before grimacing sheepishly to fit his hand into his front pocket to retrieve his phone. The device goes off again, and Zayn realizes it must be a call as Liam furrows his brows to glare at the screen, backlight harshly bright, white-washing skin.

“Everything alright, mate?” Liam answers the phone, fixes his eyes somewhere on the wall behind Zayn.

He doesn’t exactly mean to let out a dissatisfied grunt, but Zayn thinks his cause is dignified. _Who the fuck puts off getting head to answer a call?_

Liam tosses him a brief, contrite look with scrunched brows and a frowning pucker, but Zayn’s hardly mollified, instead more determined to show Liam what his mouth can do.

“I’m kind of busy right now,” Liam stresses bluntly, tone clipped. His hand goes to push back a bit of Zayn’s hair that’s drooped over his eyes, palm resting to cup his cheek – presumably so the boy knows Liam’s attitude isn’t result of his own actions.

Zayn doesn’t waste time, goes straight for the buckle over Liam’s jeans and then his button and zipper. Liam’s obstructing hand tries to settle over Zayn’s but the younger boy merely slaps it away, sends the iciest glower he can muster up at his date.

The rewarded glare is not to mess with, actually sends a chill down Zayn’s spine. Luckily, Zayn’s too pumped on adrenaline to back down, has Liam’s jeans down as far as they’ll go without Liam actually moving to fit his hands over gray boxer-briefs and cup the outline of a well-endowed cock, thick and heavy.

“I’m hanging up, Lou,” Liam recites mechanically, voice tight as if he’s trying to hold air in his lungs.

Zayn’s interest is piqued at the name, but then Liam’s phone is thrown to the end of the sofa and the man growls a “ _fuck_ , Zayn,” which sends Zayn’s organized thoughts into a whirlwind.

Patience is not one of Zayn’s better-developed qualities. At least not when he’s horny and has a point to prove. And all of the above apply currently, so it’s with little grace that Zayn reaches inside Liam’s pants, revels in the body heat of Liam’s groin to trace his rasp of naval hair downward and around tight balls.

“That’s it, baby,” Liam encourages huskily, rising slightly to push his jeans and pants off his legs with the help of Zayn.

And suckling tiny kisses over the V of Liam’s groin, the creases just before thigh, over feverish nuts takes the cake for the highlight of Zayn’s night. There’s something so primal about his innate desire to relish in the overwhelming smell of _man_ , musk and all, springy curls tickling his chin.

And he’ll give in to it every time.

Liam’s dick is jarring against the tanner complexion of his stomach, already ruddy. Veins litter its expanse and the foreskin is tight around Liam’s rose-pink head, and Zayn doesn’t bother to muffle a moan as he tilts his head to mouth from base to tip, graze his tongue to try and get a rise out of Liam.

The man seems to know what Zayn wants, at least, scolds a, “C’mon, Zayn; quit teasing.”

Not that the instruction works very well. Zayn does press fingertips into the flesh of Liam’s inner thigh, though, his other hand cupping the base of Liam’s dick to stand it up as his wild eyes connect with Liam’s slightly dazed pair.

Wanton hums fill the air from both parties when Zayn gets a good grip on Liam, holds the man’s eye while he kitten-licks at the tip in efforts to grant himself a bit of pre-cum, dick kicking against a broad, smooth tongue. And Zayn can’t help but smirk, puff out his chest at the reaction, which isn’t exactly astonishing. He’s played with a mirror before, and he knows exactly how good he looks in action.

“Shit, babe – ‘s right,” Liam stammers with hooded eyes and fingers creeping to work over his nipple.

Zayn lets go of Liam to lick his palm before delivering shallow strokes from the base up, his right palm running over Liam’s chest to help him out a bit, offer touch. Bending down again to gentle his open mouth over the tip, Zayn can imagine how it feels – humid and tight. His rampant thoughts send a twitch through his cock, but his own stifled pleasure is more than compensated with a flush of bittersweet pre-cum over his tongue, a louder grunt from Liam.

It’s a bit slow, Zayn knows, but he wants to be able to become familiar with Liam’s wide girth, the taste of his nut, anticipate how it’ll stretch and paint his throat so as to get himself worked up.

Dragging his hand back down from the expanse of Liam’s belly, Zayn uses his free hand to peel back the foreskin from Liam’s flared head. It’s such an angry red that Zayn almost takes pity, stretches his mouths delicately around it and rests his tongue on the underside, the rim, pumping a bit tighter at the base while twisting just below his mouth. It honestly appears like he’s wringing Liam’s dick, but Zayn’s practiced the trick on himself enough to know that it sends a shock of overstimulation to your neurons, tires you out and makes you blurt out stickiness in the confusion of whether it’s painful or pleasing.

Predictably, Liam’s cock spurts out a steady stream of heady _wet_ , helping Zayn to slick up his play toy.

“Zayn,” Liam reacts with a helpless gasp, sits up straight and plants his feet firmer beside the boy’s knees to grapple for a sense of control, “your _mouth_ – come here, sweetheart.”

The man grips at Zayn’s jaw so tight there are sure to be bruises, but Zayn will pardon it because Liam’s other hand fits itself under his pants, squeezes his arse _hard_ , and a quick tongue shoves into Zayn’s mouth for a desperate kiss.

The pained whimper is hardly out of Zayn’s throat before Liam is jerking back, which really only causes confusion and an even more pathetic whine of tight vocal cords.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Liam frets, mouth in an _O_ and eyes almost ashamed with a sad curve, “We didn’t even talk about roughness or painplay! I’m so sorry, Zayn. Are you alright?”

If anything, he thinks he’s contracted whiplash from the change of mood. “What – ?” Zayn so thoroughly articulates, a garbled choke following because he wants Liam’s _touch_ again but the man’s got his hands to himself. “Do you mean – ? Are you worried about _manhandling_?”

Liam’s brows only furrow at that, and Zayn’s sure a torrent of apology is about to pour out of Liam’s mouth, so he wraps his fingers around Liam’s wrists, tugs them each to his mouth to place delicate kisses on the inside before he places them over his shoulders, cups Liam’s cheeks to offer a reassuring press of lips. “We _did_ talk about this, Li. I’m green. You have to trust me to use my colors when I need to, and I have to trust you to do the same.”

Eyelids flicker over brown eyes for a moment, Liam breathing deeply in and then out before he opens them again, strokes his hands over Zayn’s neck, his pulse point. “I’m sorry, little bird. I’m still working with knowing my own strength, and _God_ but your hands are so good; I had to feel you, but then that wretched noise you made –“

“I know,” Zayn flushes prettily, grins a bit shyly because he doesn’t know how that came about either. “I didn’t mean to, and it wasn’t because I didn’t _like_ it. I want your bruises all over me, and you already know how much your hands on my arse gets me going.”

The smug little twist of a smirk plants itself on Liam’s lips for the nth time. “You do get off on it, don’t you, baby?” Heavy paws find their way to the front of Zayn’s jeans, Zayn’s breath hitching as Liam gets his trousers down his legs, leaves the pants in place but sinks his palms under the article and over the supple curve of Zayn’s bum.

A sickening keen works its way out of Zayn’s throat, and he darts forward to attach his mouth to Liam’s spit-slick lip, bites softly as he tries to press back into the pressure of Liam’s hands. With his fingers playing against Liam’s stomach, grounded, Zayn reinforces, “Green.”

A sweet half-smile is offered before Liam agrees, “Green,” squeezes cheeks heartily before slipping his hands out of Zayn’s underwear. “Let’s get you undressed, baby.”

Zayn consents with a nod, fumbles to get his skinnies off of his sock-clad feet before raising his arms and allowing Liam to remove his bulky sweater, set it delicately on the back of the couch.

It seems they both share an affinity for worshipping their partners’ bodies, chests. Because as soon as Zayn’s settled back on his knees, Liam has his fingers trailing over prominent collarbones, pecs, tracing tattoos and eyes entranced.

Zayn lets Liam do as he wants, but he doesn’t let anything stop him from taking Liam’s cock into his hand once again, relishing in the feel of it after so many obstacles between them throughout the night. And Liam hardly takes notice, too busy inching closer and closer to Zayn’s nipples.

The younger drops his jaw and quickly encloses the head of Liam’s dick once more, tongues at the slit before flattening out his tongue and bobbing once, twice, letting the slick sound of sex coat his senses before he slowly works his way further over Liam’s girth, lips stretching wide.

“Yeah, baby,” Liam mumbles, voice husky and lewd as he finally allows himself to smooth his thumb around Zayn’s nipple, causing them to pert up, “such pretty tits.”

Hardly surprised, honestly, Zayn is. Just figures Liam has a thing for nipples – a feminization kink at that. Zayn’s even a bit intrigued, never having tried it out before but his dick throbbing nonetheless.

Subsequently, Zayn lets himself off of Liam for a mo to catch his breath before dragging down the foreskin to mouth at the tip. He rubs his palm over the sensitive glans, witnesses a vein pop out in Liam’s forehead as he stifles a grunt, pinches Zayn’s nipple.

It’s a bit of a blind, desperate mess them going back and forth with their antics. But it’s so fucking lovely.

Ducking to get Liam back into his mouth, Zayn hollows his cheeks and covers his teeth, gingerly sinks down until Liam’s grazing the back of his throat. He lets it rest there to get used to the tickling pressure, but his cool is almost lost when Liam twitches out more pre-cum, making Zayn groan and the prickle of tears to begin.

When he pulls off he knows he looks like a hot mess, a fat tear pooling in his left eye and cheeks red from exertion with a string of drool connecting his lower lip to the crown of Liam’s cock.

“Such a beautiful boy,” Liam coos with his thumb sweeping sweetly over the arch of Zayn’s cheekbone, finally back from his little trance over uncharted skin. “So good for me.”

It’s a hiccupped sob, shed tears that preempt Zayn breaking any sort of resolve and clutching at his clothed cock, gasp echoing out in relief.

“No,” Liam asserts, defined warning in his clear tone, “No touching. My good boys don’t get to touch themselves without permission.”

Zayn wants to cower, and he doesn’t know why, doesn’t understand why Liam has this affect over him constantly. So he whimpers instead, clasps his hands behind his back to show that he wants to please.

“That’s it, baby boy, trying so hard for me,” Liam murmurs. A hot palm fondles Zayn’s arsecheek for the younger to nudge into. “Color?”

“Green,” Zayn rushes, kisses at Liam’s palm and pleads with his teary doe eyes.

“Alright,” Liam grabs his prick, jerks off a few times, “do you wanna open up for me, sweetheart?”

“Um,” Zayn fidgets a bit, trying to keep his fingers from going numb in the death grip he’s got them interlocked in, “Can I have a kiss first please?” The request it so timid, but Zayn can’t help it. He can’t control how he reacts to Liam’s allure.

Liam’s brows dip to form a crease before he leans forward to concede Zayn’s surging up for a near-frantic, wet lip-lock. “Of course, little bird,” Liam declares, reinforces by holding onto Zayn’s chin and pressing a peck to his slack mouth once more after they’ve separated.

Dutifully, Zayn settles back on his heels and tilts his chin up to offer an open mouth and eager tongue.

Groan rumbling in his chest, Liam can’t take his eyes off of Zayn’s submissive enthusiasm, his pretty little tongue and harsh tattoos. He scoots forward a bit and Zayn moves with him to hover his mouth just in front of Liam’s dick. A tap against Zayn’s bottom lip and the boy chases it with a furrowing brow, already another whine.

“Hey, baby,” Liam garners attention, “I’ve got you, alright? You’re gunna get plenty, trust. Now are you gunna let me help you swallow my cock?” he lifts a brow, taps his tip against Zayn’s lip again to test the boy’s reserve.

A jolting nod is Liam’s answer, Zayn not exactly trusting his vocal cords not to embarrass him.

“Come forward, then.”

And Zayn does, holds his mouth open as wide as possible to let Liam feed in his cock generously. Again it rests at the back of Zayn’s throat, both of them easing into the stimulation so as not to become overwhelmed.

“Christ, I could bust already just looking at the dirty mouth, little bird.”

It’s a gravely scrape in his throat and a squeeze of the eyes that keeps Zayn from shoving down on Liam’s dick at the compliment, automatically wanting to show off. But he refrains, nevertheless, feels more hot tears trek down his flaming cheeks as he breathes calmly in and out of his nose.

After a bit Zayn thinks he can take more, locks gaze with Liam’s lust-dark brown eyes as he expands his throat, sinks down just an inch more. He tries flexing around Liam’s width, comes back off of it when he elicits a curse.

And he knows he must appear wanton and fucked, lips bruised and hair crazed, eyelashes thick with clinging dew. The harsh breathing only adds to the look.

Liam settling a hand to the back of Zayn’s skull serves as a comfort and encouragement, Zayn eating it up as he greedily swallows the offered cock, sinks as low as he dares with two more inches still he hopes to get down his throat.

“The tip, baby – be a good lad,” Liam grunts out, the treatment working at him as he begins to lose his cool.

Zayn gladly sucks at the head, relishes the satiny, stiff flesh, Liam pumping out fluid relentlessly. It’s such a shame Zayn’s done little to play with the foreskin, so he pulls off to drag it up and over the tip, pinches it closed for a shock of sensation to Liam, works his tongue between skin and glans. Citrus seems to exude from Liam’s pores, apparently, his fluids bitter-tart with the hint of it as well.

And Zayn imagines he could stay like this for days, enjoying his hard work and reveling in the limelight – a new age art form to Zayn’s deprived desires.

“Shit, baby boy. The things I could do to that mouth – wicked.” The praise is a choked grunt. But it rings loud and clear. “Don’t think you can get away with being naughty just because your tongue is so good, though,” he adds as if by second thought, a ramble.

Zayn’s almost not able to concentrate on such complex sentences while his hands are pumping, so he peers up at his dom (because he’s accepted that dom/sub play is _exactly_ what they’re at, and he’s so weak for it) to try and maintain grip on reality, but his eyes are blurring with tears, and his ears only pick up lewd slurps and skin on skin.

Still, Liam continues his spiel, seems to only be emboldened by the debauched boy’s interest between his thighs: “The next time you pull some disobedient shit like you did while I was on the phone _just_ because you’re a greedy little boy,” a rough thumb smears at the corner of Zayn’s mouth, forefinger pressing against hollowed cheek to feel the glide of his cock inside, “I’ll lay it out on you so hard my hand will become a tattooed imprint on your arse.”

Gentle touch contrasting with severe words, Zayn erupting a whimper that’s only strangled around Liam’s dick. It’s all a rush of sensation straight to his head, panic trickling down his spine because he doesn’t know _why_ he can’t decide if he’s more turned on or resentful of the warning, hiccups edging up his throat because he’s stuck between wanting to show he’s _not_ a bad boy, that he doesn’t need to be punished but craving Liam’s heavy hand all the same.

And it’s so _wet_ that Zayn _sobs_ around the furious, throbbing crown of Liam cock, pulls back to blubber out, “ _Please_ , Li, want it so bad.” In the back of his mind he’s able to fret that there might be snot soon, but at the forefront is still the overwhelming carnal urge to please and be used.

Liam wasn’t expecting a breakdown – that much is certain. But he’s quick to gentle his demeanor and lean forward to Zayn’s rescue. “Hey, look at me, sweetheart, focus,” Liam advises with his forefinger and thumb caressing Zayn’s chin as his other begins thumbing away furious tears as they fall.

He does, he does look to his dom, twists his fingers in their clasp because he has to _touch_ but Liam didn’t tell him he could move.

After about a minute of hushed nothings and pettings Zayn’s still sniveling in recovery, but his eyes are steady as they can be and his breathing is leveling out.

“I know what you need, Zayn, and you have to trust me to take you there, yeah?” Even though his voice carries authority, those puppy eyes are popping out, affected by Zayn’s instability. “You’ve been _so_ good for me, sweetheart, and I need you to calm down or else you won’t be able to help me finish.”

He feels so out of it, so vulnerable and he _knows_ he needs to get a grip but the waterworks just keep flowing, and the notion that he won’t be able to see Liam’s pleasure through to the end has his features contorting in trepidation, these god-awful animal noises clawing their way out of his throat. And _fuck_ – there’s definitely snot.

“I _know_ ,” Liam coos gently. His hands busy themselves running up and down Zayn’s bare arms, his throat, raw cheeks. “Everything’s alright, little bird. Just breathe with me, and then you can get a taste.”

A nod is all Zayn can offer, listening to Liam’s deliberately deepened breathing so that he can match them, slow his heart rate. On the way down, Liam warns that he’s going to reach for his tossed Henley, retrieving it to dab gingerly at Zayn’s tear-soaked face and snotty lip. Zayn’s actually a bit surprised at the lack of drool.

Once his head is clearer, Zayn hushes, “Green.”

Liam’s a bit dubious: “Are you sure, sweetheart? Don’t get me wrong, your mouth is better than anything, but I want you to be able to enjoy this too. We can settle down now and there will be no foul.”

“I want it, Li, please,” Zayn requests, extremely pleased with his civil tone even if it’s still too quiet.

It takes a moment, but, “Alright, baby. Can I see your hands?”

Hesitations plays on Zayn’s account as well. Carefully he releases his fingers from their clasp: he knows they’ll be sore tomorrow.

Liam doesn’t comment on the wariness, just opens his palms for Zayn’s to lay against, cautiously lifts them up to brush his lips over the knuckles. “My brave, brave boy,” he murmurs, a soft, indulgent smile.

The urge to hide his face from Liam is absolutely ridiculous, especially considering Zayn’s had the man’s enormous cock down his throat and is about to go back at it. But logic hasn’t played a role in any of Zayn’s actions thus far, so all he can offer in response is averted gaze, ever-glowing cheeks.

Stroking his neglected cock is Liam’s next step after having placed Zayn’s palms on his thighs. It hadn’t begun to soften throughout their rather intense therapy session, is still dying for release, and Zayn doesn’t know if it’s because Liam just has a staunch sex drive or if Liam too gets off on holding control over his lover’s competence.

Either way, Zayn sits patiently, giddiness welling back in his gut at the prospect of being filled up. And his grin is hardly contained.

“Look at you,” Liam is back to taunting, basking in his role, “my polite boy absolutely gagging for it.”

He can’t deny it, merely opens his mouth back up in wait. And he’s granted use just a moment later, Liam easing his cock past Zayn’s lips and over his wet tongue. Being able to work his mouth again is shiver-inducing-ly good, Zayn taking no time at all to fit his throat around the greater majority of Liam’s prick.

After a few moments to clutch his throat tight around Liam with noisy _gluck_ s and Liam cursing to high heavens as result, Zayn pulls up a bit, catches Liam’s gaze and entwines two of their hands to let Liam know what he wants.

Graciously, Liam delivers the request, catches his left hand around Zayn’s neck and carefully lifts his hips to fuck gingerly into Zayn’s pleading mouth.

Keening contentedly, Zayn can imagine the obscenity of his appearance, but he reckons his view of a groaning, yielding Liam is just as nice – if not better. Something about taking apart this collected man sends a thrill through Zayn, and he finally allows himself to acknowledge his own desire as it keeps his dick hoping and longing stiffly.

Wanting to get this show on the road, Zayn begins bobbing his head down to meet Liam’s shallow thrusts, risks cupping Liam’s tender, angry balls for the satisfaction that would come from being able to feel them tense up and shoot out.

“Oh, Zayn,” Liam moans heatedly, “Baby, thank you; that’s so good.”

Zayn tugs lightly on Liam’s sack, goes down a bit deeper and clutches tighter to Liam’s fingers he’s still entwined with even though his hand begs for relief from the ache.

“Don’t swallow yet. Hold it on your tongue,” Liam instructs, fingers pressing Zayn’s head down farther.

He stays sheathed on Liam’s dick for a few moments, let’s Liam jerk up roughly to beat the inside of his throat even though his bloodstream is quickly soaking up all the air in his lungs. But Liam knows his self well, pulls out just before he begins nutting.

Panting, tongue out and greedy as ever, Zayn can’t decide whether to watch Liam’s pulsating cock or his blissed-out expression, flits back and forth to witness both. And he obeys so well, both hands clasped in his lap so that Liam can jerk himself to completion.

Wave after wave splatters over Zayn’s tongue, lips, jaw, eyelashes, and his tongue _waters_ , the musky, animal taste already resonating with his filthy taste buds. But he keeps his tongue out, curls it slightly to hold all he can.

Liam can’t take his eyes off of Zayn’s face even to blink, the sharpness of his features and the smooth of his olive skin contrasting so well with Liam’s milky seed. With one last tug he nearly collapses, lets go of his raw dick to grab ahold roughly of Zayn’s exquisite jaw. “Such a good boy for me, little bird,” he exhales in a rumble.

It’s with a thirsty throat Zayn finishes his job, spitting out Liam’s cum over his cock before licking it back up, covering all he can of the length and sucking him dry. He continues to mouth lightly up and down Liam’s dick until Liam whines with discomfort.

“Let me get a taste, baby,” Liam requests with dazed eyes and a heavy thumb steering Zayn’s chin. He’s fighting to not fall completely out, Zayn can tell – a toddler ignoring sleep.

But Zayn gladly meets Liam’s lips, lets his tongue be sucked into Liam’s mouth and pets over downy thighs and a quivering belly until Liam comes back to himself. “You taste so good,” he admits, wants to be able to treat Liam like the older has him – so nicely, “I can’t get enough.”

A pleased smile while Liam edges a thumb through his spunk all over Zayn’s face, feeds a willing mouth with it. “Come up here,” Liam huffs, still working on his breathing, “Let me touch my perfect boy.”

Zayn scrambles off the floor with Liam’s hands gripping his upper arms to assist, carefully sits himself just before Liam’s wilting cock so as not to cause discomfort. “Please, Li,” he’s back to his whimpering self, “I’ll be so good, I promise.”

“You are, sweetheart,” Liam assures, “you are so perfect, so gorgeous for me.” Arms wind tight around Zayn’s torso, the younger humming into the security and shamelessly rutting his clothed prick between their stomachs with toes hooking against the edge of the sofa for any type of leverage.

He’s back where he started, coming full circle with his nose chilling the clammy juncture of Liam’s neck. And the heavenly scent still exudes, strong but nowhere near overbearing, the matching essence to the man’s gentle, convivial soul Zayn has been able to acquaint himself with. It’s a balm to any apprehension melding in Zayn’s core that could possibly lead him to regret what’s partaken.

Zayn almost doesn’t want to move from his position, rather enjoying Liam’s broad chest, shoulders, firm arms. And he feels almighty on Liam’s lap, which he won’t even try to explain because he can’t quite decipher _why_.

But then Liam’s sponging delicate kisses up the side of his neck, ironing rough palms down the expanse of his back, molding over taught muscles to grab a handful of arse.

A muted mewl Zayn lets escape, gives himself a moment to present his throat in submission and bask in the teasing affection. Soon Liam’s lips become too ticklish, though, and Zayn has to lean back to smirk at Liam’s cocky advances, brushes loose hairs back off his man’s forehead.

Liam’s so incredibly adorable, Zayn thinks. Always poised, ruggedly handsome, but now he’s sleep-tired and fluffy, playful. Scruffy jaw and bushy eyebrows, goofy looking with glinting eyes and pretty lips. The hair, though. The hair sticking straight up as Zayn holds it at bay. That’s what sets off a torrent of giggles from Zayn.

“What are you laughing at, you nut?” Liam questions, smile inescapable as he begins playing with Zayn’s bum, pressing and spreading with a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

Zayn settles down gradually, is stained with a half-smile, though, and fond eyes. “I love being able to mess you up,” he murmurs, gaze flitting all over Liam’s countenance from chin to forehead.

“That you do, little bird,” Liam answers with a hint of somber reserve, but then he’s puckering his lips, and Zayn can’t help but oblige, multiple pecks that gradually grow giddier, messier, harder to break away from.

Liam presses Zayn’s hips flush against his lower stomach, curses out, “Fuck, Zayn, you’re so hard.”

That fact had been lost on Zayn. Not that he didn’t _know_ , but it wasn’t at the forefront of his mind until Liam mentioned it. And now that the situation is back into focus, he can feel the discomfort distorting his disposition, eyebrows furrowing and jaw clenching as he digs his fingertips into Liam’s shoulders, grinds against Liam’s tummy.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Liam demands, his aura of dominance back in full force with stern eyes and a set jaw.

Zayn is helpless to his audible gasp at the brashness, eats it up nevertheless. “’m sorry. I don’t know – I didn’t –“ he cuts off, tries to marshal his thoughts into a coherent explanation as to why his own desires were almost unconsciously put on the back burner. “I wanted to be good for you,” he finally whines the most logical answer he has. Once he’s set his mind on something he doesn’t let anything get in the way, after all.

“Hey, focus on me, Zayn,” Liam instructs, steadies the boy with his palm at the square of Zayn’s jaw, fingers splayed behind the younger’s ear and thumb just in front. He waits for eye contact before, “I want to make you feel good, but first and foremost I need you to feel safe. You don’t feel safe when you get yourself worked up, do you?”

The question is more rhetorical, but Zayn answers anyway: “No.”

“And if you’re trusting me to get you off, get you there, then I need you to be completely honest with what you’re feeling so I can talk you down before you even get worked up.”

Zayn nods along, sinking into the pressure of Liam’s palm. “’m sorry, Liam. I didn’t mean to not tell you how badly I need it. I don’t mean to lose control.” As if reminded, one of Zayn’s inner gators starts pumping his blood quicker, his tone subsequently pitching.

“I believe you, sweetheart,” Liam concedes, “And don’t feel like you’ve done anything wrong, per se. This is new, and we’re learning how we work together. I should have been more alert as well.”

Fingers clench in his lap, but the pain sort of helps Zayn keep touch with reality. “Are you mad?” he near squeaks, apprehensive of the answer but itching to know anyway. And his nerves must be written all over his face in wide eyes and a drooping frown.

“No, Zayn,” Liam croons, thumb so gentle to Zayn’s cheek. “I’m not angry. You've been such a perfect boy for me, so how could I be mad, hmm?”

Zayn lets his eyelids flutter closed at the praise, embraces the light flush to his cheeks. Next he presses lips to Liam’s palms, begs out a “Green.”

“Alright,” Liam’s tempo is still slowed, “tell me what you want.”

“Um,” Zayn works to express his urges, “I want to cum.”

“Okay. I’m going to stroke you off, then. Can you get my fingers wet, please?”

Zayn readily sucks in Liam’s first two digits, laves his tongue between and swirls around, measuring the crooks and thickness of knuckles. Simultaneously, Liam hums encouragement, brings up his left palm to lick at.

Too brief of a time span passes before Liam’s extracting his fingers from Zayn’s wet cocoon, and Zayn’s displeased grunt is eased when Liam drags fingers down his crack and wraps a hand around his cock all at once.

Zayn bucks up with a start, gasps treacherously obscene-like with a dropped jaw, digs his nails into Liam’s shoulders.

“Let go, baby boy. Let me make you feel good,” Liam mutters at the edge of Zayn’s jaw, spreads Zayn’s arse cheeks wide with his thumb and pinkie to tease around the dry, tight furl. He also takes the opportunity to stroke Zayn’s rigid cock roughly, balancing the pleasure scale between not enough on one end and almost too much on the other.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Zayn hiccups out a strangled cry, pounces on Liam’s raw mouth for something to do, but really he’s only panting, not kissing.

“That’s it,” Liam commends, eases a damp finger into Zayn’s quivering hole and keeps his jerks steady, thumb sweeping over the head to gather slick.

“ _Li_ ,” Zayn tries to push back on Liam’s finger.

“Be careful, baby,” Liam is quick to admonish, back and forth they go, “I don’t want you hurting yourself, but you can fuck down on my fingers if you think you can take it.”

“I can. Please,” he assures, is already performing the honors by swiveling in tight circles to eat thick knuckles past his hungry rim.

Liam gives Zayn’s prick a squeeze, takes a moment to readjust grip before he’s stroking back up and down, adding a twist near the head that has Zayn pinching his eyes shut so they don’t bulge out. “You take it so well, babe, work so hard for it. Are you trying to show off for me?” the question ends in a tease, likely to rile Zayn up in the best way.

It’s a pathetic whimper that answers, Zayn bouncing up and down easily on Liam’s sturdy digit. He’s restless trying to find the best angle, hit that spot inside of him, so he reaches back to grasp Liam’s wrist. “Another. I need another,” comes out rude even to his own ears.

“Oh?” Liam hums, clearly amused, “I thought my good boy is supposed to be polite and ask for things he deserves, not demanding.”

Zayn fusses messily, “I _am_ your boy,” almost defensive even though it’s hard to hold a severe argument when you’re fucking yourself crazy on someone’s fingers, tears threatening to spill from stimulation.

“Yes, you are my boy, Zayn, you are,” Liam leaves Zayn’s dick to pry away the locked grasp around his right wrist, pull out of Zayn while the boy’s too shocked to fight, “And I know how sweet you can be for me, so why don’t you try again?”

“Mmm,” Zayn cries nonsense, cock throbbing in pulses and hole aching because he’s so, _so_ close. “Daddy, please – I’ll be so good, I _promise_ – I’m sorry,” it’s a blubbering mess. And, really, is either actually surprised that there are loose tears?

If Liam’s stunned by the address he doesn’t show it, takes it all in stride. “Ask me for what you want, sweetheart.” Knuckles smooth back floppy hair.

“Your fingers, please,” Zayn falls forward into Liam’s shoulder, bites at the silky flesh to relieve the ever-building pressure in his belly.

Liam is appeased, apparently. “Okay, budge up,” he instructs as his left hand cups Zayn’s arse to help him rise, right hand sneaking between quaking thighs to get in between spread cheeks, work two fingers into Zayn’s arse diligently.

The moan of satisfaction is so lecherous beside Liam’s ear, the older crooking his fingers slightly to work with Zayn who’s tilting his hips slightly, looking for the perfect angle. It’s obvious when they find it, Liam rubbing a tender bump and Zayn turning his head to suck at Liam’s neck.

Sanity is a lost cause after that, Zayn bouncing and grinding like he was born to take it up the arse, Liam greasing the slide by murmuring ‘ _that’s it, baby_ ’ and ‘ _good lad_ ’ as leeway for heavier desires. And somewhere between Liam praising his boy for such a wet pussy and promising to fuck all the way down his throat, Zayn climaxes.

He doesn’t come _completely_ untouched what with smearing off against Liam’s clenched abdominals, but it’s the principle of the matter. That Zayn came with little friction on his cock. And Zayn’s traitorous mind is already conjuring kinks to play up in order to achieve new bedroom goals. (Feminization at the top of the list, maybe himself cumming untouched in lacy panties while Liam pounds into his juicy ‘ _cunt_ ’. But that’s for another time.)

And Liam’s own member begins to plump at the _filthy_ scene, at the amount of seed Zayn spurts after holding his orgasm off for so long, smearing pearly over the swollen head.

But neither have the wherewithal to initiate another round.

Coming down is euphoric itself in that Zayn’s muscles have time to breathe, rebuild from their tears. And he nearly lets himself fall asleep on Liam’s shoulder, the man himself only fostering the rash notion with heavy palms that bleed security into Zayn’s bones and soppy suckles up and down his drooping shoulder.

Soon the lulling palms are replaced with dancing fingers counting the knobs of Zayn’s spine, tickling ribs and scratching jellied thighs.

Zayn wants to be more annoyed. As it is, though, all he can do is deliver an admonishing nip to the pulse of Liam’s throat – half in efforts to hide his own grin. After Liam swats at his bum knowingly, Zayn leans back, drapes his arms over thick shoulders to greet Liam coyly.

“Just came back to me, and you’re already acting a little tart,” Liam eyes Zayn playfully.

While Liam’s already hot on his trail Zayn decides to throw him off by being candid: “I love your tummy, bumblebee,” prods his forefinger at the swell of Liam’s lower lip, “just enough to get my mouth on.”

Liam’s twinkly-eyed and shoved up cheeks under the praise, so Zayn spaces fingers over his lower belly for emphasis, noses at a soft cheek to place a kiss at the corner of Liam’s grin. “Love.”

From bumblebee to _Daddy_ in seconds, Liam twists out a smirk, a new glint in his eyes. “Keep going, baby; tell me how much you love my cock.”

It’s with great effort that Zayn keeps his flush to minimal saturation. He can’t have Liam too cocky, after all. “About that – I think I’m gunna name it Spiderman. Red and sticky.”

Instead of splutters and rouge cheeks as Zayn had anticipated, Liam’s brows pinch together to dissent: “I beg to differ. What about Thor or, like,” he pouts, fingers tapping against Zayn’s hip, “the Hulk?”

Zayn gurgles out a sharp bark of laughter, dips his head because he’s really too tired to keep going. He doesn’t give up without a fight, though. “Hmm,” he looks out of the corner of his eye as if considering it before glancing back down, studying Liam’s flaccid prick and dark fuzz, “Maybe the Hulk. You’re definitely a grower,” he shrugs as if apologetic.

Catching on to the banter, Liam’s mouth falls open in faux-indignation, rubs over Zayn’s cheek to squeeze, nips at his jaw. “I’ll show you a grower.”

“Oh, anger issues as well,” Zayn retorts cheekily.

“Let’s talk about _your_ anger issues, then.”

“Let me live, _Leeyum_ ,” he replies in a moan, pushes Liam’s sweaty hair back like he loves before slotting their lips together, nudging noses.

It’s not much of a kiss, really, Liam finally giving up and neither energetic enough to pull anything fancy, instead just letting the caress linger.

Liam pulls away with a wet noise after their moment of interlude. “I’m not letting this go, but hop off, babe. I need to clean us up before you pass out.”

It’s for lack of energy that Zayn doesn’t protest, allows Liam to help him off his lap. But there’s not a position he can take that won’t promote either discomfort or a mess, so he whines until Liam helps him stand up.

“I’m sorry, little bird,” Liam apologizes even though it’s not really his fault, “I’ll be just a mo.” And then he’s off – presumably to the kitchen or bathroom.

Zayn’s hardly able to feel ridiculous with his soft dick out and briefs half off his arse before Liam’s back, rag in hand that he uses to gingerly clean up the tacky spunk on Zayn’s tummy, his mostly desensitized cock. Pants are pulled upright as Liam finishes with the warm clean-up, relaxes his hand to the dip of Zayn’s spine. “There we are. You can lay down now.”

“Kay,” Zayn hums, scratches at his belly where it’s cool from evaporating water. He tries sitting first, but his bum is a bit sore. On the way to lie on his stomach, though, he puts pressure on his knees, and, “Ow!” comes out in a harsh whimper. Nevertheless, he doesn’t try shifting once he’s settles on his stomach.

“I’ll be right back, baby. I’ve got something to help the aches.” And Liam’s off again, Zayn whining complaint because he just wants to be able to _sleep_.

Settling into Limbo, Zayn’s just on the edge of slumber when Liam’s heavy palm smooths over his cheek, coaxes droopy, whiskey eyes alert. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart,” he murmurs as he lowers to his knees in front of the couch.

Liam tugs down Zayn’s briefs, the latter dangerously unresponsive. A chuckle is indulged in, Liam placing a kiss to Zayn’s small, rounded bum before cooled lotion is gentled to his cheeks. “Alright, turn on your side for me,” Liam instructs next, Zayn groaning but complying for Liam to apply the ointment to his knees as well.

And Zayn’s halfway gone into dreamland still, but the tingling press of lips to the back of his hand keeps him conscious, cool, poignant lotion silky on his knuckles. The massaging pressure of Liam working over achy joints is so pleasant that Zayn doesn’t fight the low moan. Soon the skilled fingers are gone from Zayn’s, but whatever lotion that’s been sunken into his skin is working its magic, joints less tender already.

A denser salve is swiped over Zayn’s lips, just under his nose and eyes – Vaseline by the lack of aroma. And then Liam’s puttering around, a pregnant pause before he’s quietly climbing over Zayn to ease into the gap before the back of the sofa, lifting Zayn’s head to place a fluffy pillow under it, pulling Zayn’s briefs back up and draping a duvet over the both of them.

Loki patters across the wooden floors and curls up at their feet as Liam clicks off the telly, drops to the couch and curls an arm over Zayn’s chest to pull them flush. They’ll talk everything over another time.

Zayn’s not even able to keep up his stream of quixotical meditations like he’s so prone to do just before sleep, is surprised he’s not crying from the utter relief, _bliss_ he’s swaddled in with a yielding body to melt into.

Cloud nine is an actual place, as it turns out. You just have to climb high enough in the sky.

| _Sunday_ |

“So you didn’t eat him out, just took him out?”

“Correct,” Zayn replies, already jaded from the subject.

A moment of silence, suspended time before something cracks. “That was absolutely awful, Haz,” Zoe proclaims, “Worst yet.”

The sun’s rays are suddenly quite a bit fiercer up top of Harry’s apartment building. But at least Zoe’s sense enough to change the topic acts as a bit of sunblock. And Zayn’s shades hide his eyes from the heat of Harry’s gaze particularly well.

“I thought it was pretty good,” Harry shrugs, stays propped up on his lawn chair to continue eyeing Zayn, “Looks like there was at least some tongue action with the hickey you’ve got on your neck.”

Tensing up is parasympathetic – fight or flight. Because he was hoping neither would mention it. “Shut the fuck up, Harry.” He follows up by turning on his left side to face away from both Zoe and Harry.

Neither comment again, pages flipping in Zoe’s magazine and Harry’s ‘indie’ music playing from his speakers at the corner of the roof. It’s too chilly still to be laid out in nowt but swim trunks, but the waist-high bricks that enclose the roof blocks whipping wind. Truly a beautiful day.

Zayn feels like shit. He really shouldn’t have come to Harry’s; he knew he would only drag the trio’s morale down. But after taking a taxi to his own flat and standing in the quiet foyer – no tapping claws, no beaming skyline – the atmosphere was too eerie to lay around by himself in.

It wasn’t just the need for human presence, though. It’s how sick Zayn feels when he remembers what he’s done to Liam’s second floor, why he’s with Liam in the first place. It’s such a drastic shift from the contentedness that shielded him like a coat of armor all night with Liam and the morning after, soft laughter and shy smiles until Zayn took his leave. And Zayn thought he might puke as soon as reality hit him. Because someone like Liam doesn’t deserve to be toyed with, and Zayn’s garbage for doing so.   
Bosco sniffs his way over to Zayn with a green and white threaded rope hanging from his mouth, eyes so droopy Zayn can’t help but take pity and concede a lazy tug-of-war game. The Boxer switches into his territorial mode naturally, a menacing growl low. He’s come a long way from rescued on the street.

Low chatter is to Zayn’s back, Zoe mentioning inviting Cara over so her and Harry can discuss their acting aspirations, Harry inquiring about Alfie and whether or not they’re up for a night out in the next week.

“You know, Zayn,” Zoe finally breaks the wall between them just as he knew she would, “it’s alright to just toss the article. Or make it up and date Liam normally.”

Another punch to the gut, aching and churning. But Zayn knows he’ll have to talk it out, so he turns back over and lets Bosco have the toy. “I can’t just scrap the story, Zo: I need to keep my job.” A sigh, the sun obscuring his left eye’s vision even with his sunglasses on. “And it’d be pointless to cut all the crazy now. I fucking ransacked his flat.”

Harry doesn’t disguise his cackle, but Zoe does, the brunt of her amusement hidden by her aviators. “It’s not too late to just come clean to him. Start over.”

And he’s entertained that thought briefly in snapshots of what could happen. But the imageries are so ethereal – too idealistic: breathtaking view to come home to, expensive wines, a horde of pets, a warm body to fall into. It’s what everyone strives for but few ever achieve.

No. There’s a difference between floating your head in the clouds and chasing your dreams. And what Zayn wishes forefront is to head his writing career. _That’s_ attainable. And if it takes annoying some unfortunate bloke to death, well, then so be it.

Reinforcing his goal out of the mayhem alleviates the weathering weight on Zayn’s shoulders, at least. “I need to step my game up,” he announces as he sits tall, plants his feet on solid ground, “This guy’s a fucking trooper, let me tell ya.”

“Alright then,” Zoe props herself further up in her lay, takes a swig of her martini from the miniature patio table between them (because apparently it’s that kind of discussion), “Let’s go back over what all you’ve done to see what we can escalate.”

“Harry – ?“

“Alexander’s _Universal Don’ts_?” the man in question prompts, “Already on it.”

“Thank you,” Zayn offers, and in seeing Harry wave it off he knows all is forgiven between them. “So on our second date we went to the game where I got between him and his sport and acted super jealous,” Zayn ticks off the offenses on thumb, then forefinger. “Third, I acted jealous again, got between him and the movie, and then got him beat up, which wasn’t actually the plan, but it couldn’t have gone much worse.”

Harry lets out a laugh and Zo just tuts, wraps her lips around her flimsy yellow straw and scratches behind Bosco’s ear.

Zayn as well can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of the situation, but, “Moving on: Fourth, I brought a whole lot of random shit to his flat to decorate. Like, he has his grandmother’s bathroom now, and there are fucking Minions posters.”

Zoe finally cracks a god-awful scoff, and at that Zayn lets his own shoulders to shake a bit, leans forward to rest his elbows on knees and his head in hands.

“That’s quite enough,” Harry proclaims even though he’s wearing his own smirk, “Let’s sort out a plan.” Once Zayn and Zoe are ahold of their amusement, Harry reads off: “Call him and be at his house constantly, become bro-pals with his friends, use baby talk, and basically act like you’re married.”

Zayn begins to nod, mull it all over.

“Oh, wait,” Harry interrupts his brainstorm, “maybe like have sex, cry, and _then_ start planning your wedding.”

A rush of heat attacks Zayn’s cheeks, so he ducks his head to act like he’s still thinking, tries to calm the images from the night prior so he doesn’t pop a boner in the moment. After a bit he thinks he’s alright, and if there’s excess color in his features he can just blame it on UV rays. “I could kick up the baby talk quite a lot.”

“Maybe make him a scrapbook using Photoshop,” Zoe helps.

He looks off the roof and at the surrounding buildings, allows honking traffic to background his thoughts. “I could see if I could find his mum’s number and get some pictures, like,” Zayn formulates.

“Oh, by the way,” Harry taps on his phone before looking to Zayn, “Caroline said she’s running a bit late but that she’s still dropping Brooklyn off here.”

“Yeah, bro. Your place is closer to hers than mine. That’s cool, yeah?”

“Of course. Are you staying here with Brooklyn, then?”

Zayn’s about to answer an affirmative, but then Bosco’s rubbing against his knee again, begging for some love, and, “Mariana’s volunteering at Social Tees today, yeah?”

| _Monday_ |

“ _Ice, ice, baby_ –“

Liam coughs out a muted chuckle, averts his eyes to Niall who’s seated at his desk, shoes surely scuffing up the finish as the man bobs his head while scanning through Webster’s Dictionary.

It’s nearing midday by now, and they’ve been at this since 8:00 – tossing a little hacky sack between each other and Andy in hopes of circulating their dammed flow of creative juices.

Andy had entered around 10:00, a pitying crook of the mouth with crossed arms as he leaned against the doorframe, and by that time Niall was distracted with rousing through Liam’s desk, his shelf, and Liam himself had his pressed button-up rolled up to elbows and wrinkled.

Liam’s seriously considering petitioning for a Casual Monday.

“What about glitter?” Andy questions, pauses the game to eye their drawing board. He had begun rough sketches earlier, rearranging numbers and word art because he has an eye for that stuff.

“Like glitter glue?” Niall asks, question bare, “I mean, you’re the graphics guy, not me.” But he’s already got a smirk on his face as he flips through pages of the dictionary. “To shine by reflection with many small flashes of brilliant light.” His tone is flippant, lilts up on the adjectives.

“ _Shine bright like a diamond_ ,” Liam can’t help but tune out just before Andy drop-kicks the knitted, Bob Marley-esque toy to him.

Andy doesn’t offer even a ‘ _fuck off_ ’, just an eye-roll, which is how Liam knows they’re all on the verge of psychosis with the onslaught of ridiculous words.

“Flash, gleam, glint, sparkle, glisten, glimmer, shimmer,” Niall carries on by way of listing synonyms. A drill that’s long passed monotonous to deaf ears.

“You could just theme the presentation My Little Pony,” Andy starts, “What’s it? Rainbow Sparkle – no, Twilight!”

Liam furrows his brow in confusion, pressure building up just at the forefront of his skull.

Niall cracks up, tosses his head back with a startling clap. “We’ve got a Brony on our hands!”

“A _what_ – ?”

“Oi, shove off!” Andy retorts, “’ve got a niece ‘s all.”

Angling away from the two bickering lads, Liam cocks a hip to eye the poster they’ve got on an easel. Except there’s virtually nothing on the board. He’s got statistics in charts to showcases why Dilaurentis Diamonds should pair with Winston Advertising, but he knows that numbers very rarely sell; what seals the deal is a pitch’s charisma and the sense of security – even if false – that’s captured with the plans.

What they’ve been trying to do is come up with a slogan for the campaign, because as cheesy as it sounds, catchphrases are trademarked for a reason: they work.

But they’ve gotten virtually nowhere in the past hour, attention spans burning like wick without a candle. Hazy smoke as their line of thinking. “Alright, lads,” Liam sighs, tunes back into their mindless squabble, “let’s knock off for a bit. Lunch on me?”

Everyone else had the same idea, apparently, because when Liam opens up his doors to the main floor area not even Clark, the receptionist, remains. Jessica is at her desk, though, likely picking up where Andy left off on a project when he came to help with the Diamond pitch. Liam offers a small wave that he hopes isn’t too guilt-ridden.

The back room has turned into Winston Advertising’s de facto break room, a fridge in one corner with a round dining table, pool table in the middle.

“How’s it going with your bloke?” Andy questions as he grabs a pool stick off its stand on the wall, begins scooping the balls out of the table pockets.

Niall starts chortling before Liam can drag in a breath, and Liam shoots him a side-eye for it.

Because Niall doesn’t even know the half of it, is the thing. Sure, Liam had premised what’s occurred on their few dates, but Saturday night… (or, yesterday morning, as it were). That’s on a different level altogether.

Liam briefly entertains getting it all off his chest: the sick night followed by the sickening morning when he’d finally gone upstairs. But Liam imagines there’d be something so cutting in an admission of how Zayn’s seeming playing him like a drum, the butt of a demeaning joke, so Liam doesn’t spill. And anyway, maybe Zayn hadn’t meant to evoke such inferior emotions within Liam – maybe Zayn is truly just eccentric.

Either way, Liam doesn’t fancy a heart-to-heart, would rather focus his attention on extracurricular. “It’s been a wild ride,” he grabs his own pool stick, let’s Andy line up the balls before Niall’s to break.

Liam kind of immediately regrets his wording, Niall puffing up to laugh and Andy’s mouth twisting into a smirk, but then the bell above Winston’s entrance chimes, and Liam glances up – classic conditioning.

“Zayn?” is pitched out of Liam’s mouth before he’s even able to fully comprehend the scene in front of him – the man of the hour locking eyes with him before beaming out a “Pumpkin!”

It’s breathtaking, truly, the way Zayn’s eyes shine and nose crinkles, his expressions so honestly emotive. But his tone is frivolous, pet name ridiculous, so Liam knows there will be no relaxation with this visit. Liam half wants to compare him to a siren maybe. Or a vampire, the ultimate predator. Unfortunately, there’s no time for that.

He clears his throat, tries to play up a genuine smile. “What are you doing here, babe?”

Zayn’s made his way past the office space and is entering the break room, gaze unfaltering. “Just took my lunch hour and wanted to see you,” he stalls right in front of Liam, places his hand just below the sternum with a dainty giggle before his face falls, eyes rounding, “You’re excited to see me, aren’t you, Li-li?”

“Of course, Zayn,” Liam exhales, cups familiar hips to slot his mouth against Zayn’s pouted lower lip. It’s not untrue, exactly: the boy’s a beautiful sight to behold, and his heat is intoxicating.

“Are you sure? Did I do something wrong?” the boy furthers quietly as he nibbles on a magenta lip. “You didn’t call me at all yesterday.”

Liam’s breathing hitches imperceptibly as he considers being honest, asking his love interest about what the fuck happened to his loft, but. Now may not be the time to bring it up, and something tells Liam that he wouldn’t win a battle against the boy in front of him, anyway. “I’m sorry, angel. I was just trying to run errands, which got a bit hectic.”

Zayn pulls back after a moment, apparently satiated enough with Liam’s response, shifts some bulky carry-on higher on his shoulder and leans into Liam slightly to face their company (who currently stand awkwardly as if they haven’t been unsuccessfully eavesdropping).

A bit of the bravado has dissipated, and Liam would rather study the sharp of Zayn’s bone structure, how it contrasts with the shy tilt of his jaw, but there are formalities to adhere to. “Andy, Niall,” Liam gestures at each, “this is Zayn.”

Andy simply nods at Zayn with a “hey, bro,” but Niall goes all out, slaps a palm to Zayn’s before hauling the latter into a hug. “Fuckin’ legend!” Niall tacks on for good measure, face red with amusement.

Liam can only scowl at his best mate in reprimand, especially since a shaky huff falls past Zayn’s lips at the comment. Even Liam can tell Niall’s a bit mockingly conspiratorial.

“We were just about to have a go with a bit of Nine Ball,” Liam transitions, squeezes at Zayn’s waist for his attention, “would you like to join, little bird?”

Soft eyes sparking, Zayn declines, “Oh, no. I just stopped by to show you what I got us.” And without further ado Zayn’s stepping up to the pool table, carefully hauling what looks like a bulky satchel on top of it. “His name is Yoda, and I just couldn’t resist,” the boy gushes as he unzips a side of the bag, reaches inside to curl a – _cat_? – to his chest.

Liam’s at a loss for words. Zayn looks so young with pleading eyes and hunched shoulders, a fat, wrinkled, grey feline on the dais of his arms.

“What the fuck is _that_?” Andy is first to scoff, tone nasty in its surprise.

Prepared to bite back at Andy, Liam’s caught off guard when Zayn resiliently finds his floor, scathes out, “He’s a Minskin, and I got him from a shelter I’ve worked with.”

“Yoda?” Niall cuts in with fascination, a laugh, “Certainly suits the little guy.”

Zayn’s shoulders loosen as he sets the cat down on the green felt, watches it stretch on stubby limbs with a tentative smile playing on his lips.

Needing the discomfort to disappear completely, Liam sidles back up to the younger lad and offers cautious fingers for the cat to rub up against. The hairless texture is a bit off at first, what with Liam being so used to fluffy Loki, but Yoda is still soft.

“What’s the collar say, then?” Niall intones, amusedly entertained by the situation.

“Oh, yes!” Zayn perks back up, stunning Liam slightly as he pivots to land his hands on Liam’s stomach, zero to one hundred with tilted brows and mouth sweetly puckered. “I’ve got us all an _adorable_ matching set of apparel,” he informs, scoops up the drowsy cat to cocoon it between their chests, twists the collar a bit to read a bedazzled ‘ _Baby Malik-Payne_ ’.

Liam’s eyebrows shoot up on their own volition, and he can only hope Zayn doesn’t read it so negatively.

The younger boy rushes, “Don’t worry, darling. I’ve got one for Loki as well,” and then he’s laying Yoda back on the pool table, reaching for the hem of his hoodie to pull it off.

Liam instinctively holds the end of Zayn’s white t-shirt down so it doesn’t ruck up, and at first there’s nothing but fresh cotton, but then Zayn makes a grand gesture of puffing out his chest and pointing over his left pec where ‘ _Malik-Payne_ ’ is stitched like an insignia.

His skull begs to drop a heavying jaw in astonishment before Zayn’s _squee_ ing, not even paying attention to the older man in order to turn a 180 and show off the back of his shirt. It sports ‘ _Liam’s Man_ ’ in rather large font, a headshot of Zayn and then of himself sandwiched between the words.

A moment passes. “Where did you get that picture of me?” Liam asks, tone low.

Zayn spins back around with the grace of a fucking ballerina, loops his arms around Liam’s neck, scrunches up his nose as if he thinks Liam is trying to be cute, “Instagram, silly.” He plants a peck over Liam’s slackened moue before, “I want you to try yours on, Li.”

And Liam doesn’t think he’d have the wherewithal to object even if he weren’t so blown away by Zayn’s latest stunt. As it is, Zayn begins unbuttoning Liam’s dress shirt from the bottom up.

Not able to ruminate efficiently on the implications behind Zayn’s presence and double identities, Liam lets his eyelids flutter closed for a few seconds, opens them back up with a long exhale that draws the boy’s gaze to his. It’s intimate in such an unassuming way, especially what with the same eyes having been locked together all of yesterday morning, lazy kisses and wandering hands, and Liam can only stare as Zayn’s chin drops bashfully, fingers fumbling on the third to top button on Liam’s shirt.

A harsh cackle tunes Liam back into Niall and Andy’s conversation, Niall’s eyes wide as he exclaims, “He’s bladdered!”

Liam scrutinizes the cat, witnesses it wobble on its wide stance, is curious himself but not rash enough to yell about it.

“He’s got Feline Cerebellar Hypoplasia, _Niall_ ,” Zayn grits out, tenses up. “He can’t help it. And if any of you have anything else bitchy to say about the cat,” he cuts eyes to Andy, Niall, and back up to Liam, “then you can fuck right off.”

And _woah_ – Liam automatically affects affronted, brows heavy as he lands a heavy smack to Zayn’s hip, but Zayn doesn’t sweeten up as usual and instead glares unforgivingly at Liam.

Oblivious to the stand-off, Niall merely throws his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, mate. Wasn’t lookin’ to take the piss; he’s ace.”

Liam’s just about to analyze Zayn’s reaction, is hoping the harsh line of his mouth will smooth out, but then Andy’s cutting in: “Is he about to be sick?”

Zayn stumbles out of Liam’s embrace in time to helplessly watch Yoda upchuck near a corner pocket, frets over the cat with a droopy brow and easy hands down its spine.

“Boys?” Liam draws Andy and Niall’s attention, tone autocratic, “Could you give us a mo?”

Wordlessly the two exit, Liam following behind but ducking into the restroom to wet a wad of paper towels and grab Febreze. Upon his return Zayn is cradling Yoda, cooing lowly at him, so Liam maneuvers around the two to clean up the mess, which is thankfully dry and of sparse proportion.

Liam lets the silence exist for a beat after spraying the room with _Meadows & Rain_, hopes Zayn will be less on the defense now that their unfamiliar company is elsewhere. “Is he alright?” he tries a muted voice.

“He gets extra wobbly when he’s excited or uncomfortable,” the boy offers, tone matter-of-fact with carefully concealed expression.

Without response Liam sidles up in front of Zayn, watches the cat as well. “That’s quite cute,” he can’t help but confess, fingers dragging over Yoda’s fuzzy paws, “A bit like socks, yeah?”

Zayn glances up with a crooked grin, but the set of his eyes is unsure. “He’s really sweet, Li. Great with other animals and potty-trained.”

It’s as if Zayn’s trying to preach a sell, but Liam doesn’t need it. Knuckles brush against the younger’s cheek, Liam finding warmth in the Zayn he first met, the one that’s only around half the time. “Alright,” is near a whisper, horrifyingly fond.

A genuine smile takes over Zayn’s countenance, relief evident as Yoda purrs into Liam’s caress. “He likes you.”

“Yeah?” Liam queries, thumb tracing the outline of a disproportionately large ear, left palm finding its way over Zayn’s waist. “The boys didn’t mean anything by their comments, by the way.”

Zayn shuffles closer, presses the left of the cat’s ribcage to Liam’s bare chest. “He’s used to it, been at the shelter for a few years now, fostered by most of the workers because no one wants to let him go.”

Liam thinks he knows what Zayn needs to hear, offers it wholeheartedly: “I’d love to take care of him, sweetheart.”

It’s almost imperceptible the quiet that presumes bated breath, but it’s there, and Liam’s tempted to question the boy before him on what he wants to hear, but Zayn only leans forward to press feathery lips to the hollow of Liam’s throat – the place Liam knows sports a salmon love bite.

In an instant Zayn is standing tall again, grin wide and inauthentic in that it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sweet! Also, he’ll need weekly baths, and you’ll have to purchase a baby gate so he doesn’t try to wander up or down the stairs.”

That god-awful pitch is back in Zayn’s tone, and Liam wants to grip the boy and shake him down in interrogation to find out what the fuck the change of demeanor is useful for. But in the back of his mind he remembers that if he wants to pitch to the Dilaurentis at all then it’ll be best not to irk Zayn. And maybe it’s better after all for Zayn to turn out insane – whether it be purposeful or organic. At least that way it would be easier for Liam to end a relationship he’s incapable of cultivating.

“Now hurry up, bumblebee,” Zayn urges, “I want to see you in the shirt.”

——

It’s a few hours later, and Liam’s ready to call it a day. Winston is meeting with Steele and Pearson just across the way, and Liam wants more than anything to be able to win the boss completely over to his side of the bargain, but he’s made no developments to his pitch campaign since Niall and Andy decided to tackle their own projects instead of supervising Liam flailing through his own.

And Liam can admit he’s mostly been useless because Zayn left him completely void of energy and half-mad. And not in a sexy way – not how Liam felt all through Saturday evening and Sunday morning, breathless and blissed out.

No, this time Zayn was all over the place in senseless commentary and outlandish plans for the future, and he made sure to drag Liam along through the mostly one-sided preaching.

Liam inadvertently begins creating an organized chart in his head, categorizing moments from when they first met till now that had himself feeling as if something were off. The first time they met was nice, but the second date at the Knicks game was quite uncomfortable. Watching Dawn of Justice with Zayn was entertaining at first, but then the boy went a bit overboard in pissing off the guy behind them. And Liam had thought their date last night couldn’t have gone any better, been any more rewarding, but then when he saw his second floor defaced –

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groans, lets his head fall flat on his desk. He’s going to rupture a blood vessel if he tries to delve into the intricacies of their encounters.

His rationale doesn’t seem to care, though, because it lets the thoughts flow, a stone resting heavy in the pit of his stomach, crushing his self-worth.

Liam’s vaguely working to sort out whether Zayn’s loony by nature or chaotic on purpose when Yoda stumbles out from his carrier, leans against Liam’s arm and purrs. At least Yoda’s been docile, asleep for the good majority of the afternoon with no more slip-ups.

The blinged out collar scratches at Liam’s hand, so he takes some time to appreciate the aesthetic – garnet fabric and diamond studs like sparkling wine. Or, no – there’s a phrase Zayn used to describe the jewels, but –

Liam’s zipping Yoda back up into his carrier and hustling out of his office in an instant, pulse heightened from the surge of excitement that comes from his revelation, because this could very well be _it_.

A moment is stolen to compose himself before Liam knocks on the conference room door twice, opens it to search out Winston. As soon as they meet eyes, Liam proclaims: “Frost yourself.”

“ _Pardon_?” Winston shakes his head in confusion just as Pearson voices, “We’re in the middle of a meeting, Payne.”

Preferring to ignore the woman with slits for eyes who’s waving a laminated folder around, Liam nods to his boss and reinforces, “Frost Yourself. The slogan for my campaign.”

It’s a beat that’s filled with petty scoffing later, of Liam regretting not going over his game plan before Winston hitches a smile. “Continue.”

| _Tuesday_ |

Zayn’s standing just outside Liam’s front entrance trying to compose himself. It seems Liam’s phone is hooked up to the surround sound, and right now his voicemail is rolling itself. The pet names have reached a new low: “ _I’ve got a surprise for us that you’ll just adore, babycakes!_ ”

With a harsh bite to his lip to ward off obnoxious snickers, Zayn raps on the door and sings out, “It’s me!”

In seconds there’s music playing instead of voice messages, and the front door swings open, Liam a bit frazzled with a harsh smile on his face that rather resembles a threatened pup more than genuine merriment.

Instead of sympathy and guilt, Zayn enables relief to take root in his sternum: his tactics are finally getting to Liam, so the mess should all be dealt with soon.

Zayn darts forward to land a peck to a slack mouth before stepping into the foyer. “Was your phone on silent, Li? I was trying to get ahold of you.”

There’s a stumble that may or may not be the start to a response, but then Loki scuttles into view, and Zayn drops into a crouch to appease the animated pup. “Where’s Yoda?” Zayn queries, actual intent behind a craning neck and scrunched brow.

“Uh,” Liam begins, “He’s a bit wary of the new environment, I think. Likes to lay in his carrier.”

It’s a frown that pulls Zayn to his feet, Loki slightly less deprived. “Have you tried cuddling him, showing him around?”

Liam’s uncertainty is engraved in his features, exudes from his demeanor in tight shoulders tilted away from Zayn. As if he’s ready to escape.

“Where is he?” Zayn demands, but he’s already sweeping his eyes throughout the focus of Liam’s flat – living area and kitchen. He’d be lying if he claimed that he tried not to be mad.

Yoda’s luxury tote is propped beside the kitchen island, blends in nicely with dark, wooden structure and metallic surfaces, and Zayn’s pleased upon marching to the location to find Yoda sleeping soundly. A cute, black and white double dish is filled to the brim with Yoda’s favored cat food on the left, water on the right, but it looks untouched for the most part.

“Has he not been eating, Liam?” Zayn’s question wobbles past the bite of his lip, is accompanied by a concave brow.

Again, Liam is reluctant to answer. Feet two-step his weight that seems to be taking a toll on his shoulders as well.

Zayn finds is easy to anger at Liam’s avoidance, his lack of care to participate in discussion. “If you didn’t want Yoda you should have told me, Liam!” he snaps, words quick and sharp off of his tongue.

The man finally looks up at that, fingers twisting around themselves and a troubled scrunch of expressions. “It’s not that, just…”

Zayn’s heart palpitates at the wording. It’s the start of a thousand generic breakup lines, and he has to hide his dry gulp. He consciously knows that this is what he needs, but his body hasn’t received the memo, and he can’t help but wonder if his crossed arms have stopped appearing as defiant and instead just look like a pitiful shield.

“I’m sorry, Zayn,” Liam heaves a sigh, steps closer as one hand fists itself in the hold of his other, “I _do_ want to take care of him, but I’m a bit unsure as to how, and I know I should’ve just asked for your help, but I didn’t want to let you down –“

“Liam,” the younger finally cuts in, the rambling line of thought a bit much to comprehend without pause. Zayn just knows he can breathe again, stomach settling itself away from nauseating suspense. “I’m happy to help.”

“I just –“ the man stutters out, gaze blinking between Zayn and the floor, “I knew Yoda needed a home, and I didn’t want to upset you by showing that I may not be equipped for him.”

Zayn creates pressure on the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, inhales a round of deep breaths so he doesn’t berate the man in front of him as if he’s actually a five-year-old. “I hope you realize how irresponsible it is to not inform someone when you need assistance.” He’s proud of the way his sentence coagulates, accusation not as heavy in his tone than in his mind.

“I’m sorry,” Liam reiterates, volume subdued. “Could you please reacquaint Yoda and me? I think he might eat if he’s comfortable with me.” There’s a strained chuckle out of an awkwardly quirked smile.

And Zayn’s yet to open his eyes back up. Reassessing the situation, he focuses on the fact that Liam didn’t break up with him and – in fact – suggested he’d like to continue developing the relationship further, rather. At this point he’s wondering who’s crazier for not ending it.

“We better not fuss with him right now. He hates being woken up,” Zayn breathes out, dragging his eyes to the man yards away.

And he can’t help but wonder at the gulf that’s been able to wear itself between them in such short a time span, at the bridge they’ve built with every sweet kiss and genuine grin. He’s aware that in the end one will have to overthrow the other, and for his own sake he can’t be the one to drown.

“Would you like to show me what you brought in the meantime?” Liam concedes, steps onto the rickety bridge his side of the pond.

Zayn’s eyes trace back to the foyer where his worn rucksack sits, and he had originally planned to go about this with giggly gusto, but now he’s just tired. “I had spare time at work, so I composited our faces together to create our future love children.” Cut and dry actually packs more punch.

Liam’s uneasy expression serves to lighten Zayn’s spirit as to where he has to bite his lip from laughing on his way to scoop up his bag. He avoids Liam’s gaze all the way back to the kitchen bar, hauling his commodities onto the cool counter.

“You want to see it, yes?” He finally prompts when it becomes apparent Liam’s taken a vow of silence for the evening, cranes his neck to raise his brows at the man who has shifted his way just behind Zayn’s shoulder.

“I – yes?” Liam responds, right hand steadying himself on the edge of the bar.

“If you don’t want to see our future then just tell me,” Zayn bites, eye roll involuntary with a huff.

Liam lets his bar stool scrape the floor as he pulls it behind Zayn’s, takes his sweet time to rest his left hand on the younger’s waist before gentling a kiss to Zayn’s temple. “I suppose I do, then. But how –?”

“Oh! By the way,” Zayn simpers as he leans back into Liam’s chest, “I’ve decide we’ll remain abstinent until our wedding night. Or maybe just until the engagement, but that all depends on how you ask and the ring, so don’t hold your breath.”

Hold his breath Liam does if his stiffening posture is anything to go by, and Zayn lets his eyes widen with mirth at his own improv before diving into the family album. “As you can see here, bumblebee,” Zayn taps at the cover over embossed gold, “It’s titled ‘ _Into The Future_ ’. Bisque Thin font because it’s funky. Black, white, and gold because it contrasts nicely.”

A chin digs into Zayn’s shoulder, and he almost leans his temple against Liam’s cheek before he remembers that he’s showing the man a fucking photo-shopped compilation of their ‘future’ and that he might get sucker-punched if he makes the wrong move.

A slight clearing of the throat.“Moving on,” he announces, opens the book to the first page, “’ _The Engagement_.’ Take note if you want this arse within the next six months, which is your time limit for proposing, by the way.” Zayn clenches his teeth so as not to bang his head on the bar at his own absurdity, tops Liam’s left hand with his own and laces their fingers to rest on his thigh. “I pulled a few different generic proposal samples because I don’t know which you’ll go with,” he points to a couple on the Eiffel Tower, at a restaurant, with family, “But I don’t want anything cliché or juvenile as if you’re asking me to prom, of course. And, as you can see, I’ve printed out quite a bit of ring samples. I like black bands, and maybe some jewels. I usually go for chunky accessories, but I can make an exception for something as important as an engagement.”

He’s rambling now, so he takes a moment to breathe, dreads looking at a stoic Liam (on principle, _not_ because he cares how Liam reacts to the mention of monogamy). But he can’t put it off, so he twists to the right and squeezes their fingers to gaze up at him.

“You’re very imaginative, little bird,” the older hums out, eyes like brittle toffee, likely resigned to ride out this experience without complaint lest it take longer.

“Yes, well,” Zayn turns back around, flips the page to ‘ _The Wedding_ ’ to reveal different venues and elegant sherwanis (that he was admittedly a bit reluctant to add because his culture he doesn’t take as a joke. But Liam’s actually politely interested in them, goes out of his way to compliment the style and ask indulgent questions.)

‘ _The Honeymoon_ ’ is followed by ‘ _First Home_ ’ and then ‘ _First Child_ ’, which is where Liam pipes in, slightly less perturbed to make way for curiosity: “Where did you find my baby pictures?”

“Rang your mum and got chatting,” Zayn informs as nonchalantly as possible. “Now this –“

“How’d you get her number?” Liam leans back, effectively allowing Zayn to near lose his balance as well as his steady heart rate.

“ _Liam_ –“

“I’m sorry, babe,” he rushes out with solid palms to the back that steady Zayn.

Genuinely miffed, Zayn furrows his brow and ripostes, “I looked her up in the fucking phone book, Liam,” arms crossing. “Do you have a problem with public services?”

Liam sits back down gingerly, turns Zayn’s stool until they’re facing each other without twisting about. A moment of silence. “I just keep mucking up tonight,” he sighs, eyes closed as he fingers Zayn’s chin and presses plush lips to the younger’s forehead. Pulling back after Zayn exhales, Liam continues, “I was just confused is all. Wasn’t expecting you to contact my mother.”

“Well get used to it, Liam, because she and I adore one another,” the boy’s nose turns up righteously.

“Oh, is that so?” Liam leans back and flattens his hands to Zayn’s thighs, sports bemused consideration.

And Liam seems to be gaining the upper hand, which makes no sense considering everything Zayn’s hit him with throughout the evening. To make it worse, Zayn’s having trouble remaining pompous when he wants to tuck his chin and hide himself in the crook of Liam’s neck, too-familiar paws heating up just where he loves to be caressed. (And he truly regrets having revealed himself so intimately to the man because ever since it’s as if there’s a magnetism drawing him to Liam with close proximity setting his nerves alight, dancing stomach and blushing skin. Vulnerability is not affordable.)

“Get your dirty paws off me, Liam,” Zayn snips, voice as firm as can be, “I was serious about not making love, and you’re instigating.”

Liam merely shifts over a smirk, fingers crawling to Zayn’s hips as he stands tall between thighs and crowds the younger boy against the bar’s edge. He curves to trace lips against the shell of Zayn’s ear. “I don’t believe that’s what you want, little bird. What happened to your prowess, hmm?”

 _Fuck_. Of course the proposal is a bit too absurd considering how Zayn has initiated the play from the start, with how he responded to Liam the other night, especially. Zayn doesn’t answer, though, continues to act a statue even as his lover begins nuzzling at his neck.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, baby?” Liam hushes, pulls back slightly. “If you truly don’t want to fool around then we’ll talk about it, alright?”

The younger doesn’t answer, settles his hands on Liam’s waist and accentuates his neck. Because it’s hard to stay in character with sweet lips offering themselves to his throat, whispers of Liam besieging the opportunity to take care of his boy, strong legs holding Zayn’s thighs apart –

Soft background music abruptly cuts off as shrill ringing blares from the surround-sound system, which jolts Zayn into rational consciousness: “Answer your phone, you brute,” he hassles, palms lightly pushing against Liam’s chest.

Zayn realizes how much he needs the smell of fresh, outside air when Liam’s walking away from him and a fragrant citrus still saturates his senses. He’s had enough of back and forth with Liam, with not being able to keep a sound mind around the man. And Liam’s commitment to the ‘relationship’ is no longer intriguing but instead slightly worrying considering the fact that – unless he _wants_ an exchange of nuptials. Which, on the one hand, is ludicrous because they’ve known each other not yet a week. Then again, Liam _does_ hold a good handful of years his senior, has a stable income and is nearly past the prime age for settling down.

Derailing that train of thought is for Zayn’s fracturing sanity.

“No, mum,” Liam mumbles into his phone, arms against his chest as he angles away from Zayn.

The wine shelf calls out to Zayn, but he shuts off his brain to stumble from his perch and pull Yoda out of his slumber, the poor thing mewling as he stretches. And thus Zayn takes it upon himself to walk the cat around Liam’s flat, show him his food and litterbox that’s in the bathroom off the foyer.

On his way back from the washroom, Zayn can’t help but let his gaze linger on Liam. Plump lips seem fixated in a gentle smile, lashes fluttering as the man listens to whatever his mother has to say.

“Er – yes?” Liam’s thick brows pull together for a pause before he answers again, “Right here. Just a mo’.” And then Liam’s eyes settle on Zayn in query, legs carrying him to the younger.

Even as sweet as Karen Payne is, Zayn chokes on a hitch in his breathing, can’t help his eyes widening just so.

But Liam’s demeanor isn’t any braver, cheeks abashed and eyes finding it hard to lock with Zayn’s as he silently offers up his phone and gestures toward Yoda with his left hand, and, _oh_.

“He likes you, Li; don’t worry,” Zayn tries to reassure Liam if only because the one thing more troubling than his own lack of situational dominance is when Liam isn’t holding the weight either.

As soon as they’ve swapped treasures Zayn brings the call to his ear. “Mrs. Payne?”

“ _Oh, hush, sweetheart – you know it’s ‘Karen’_ ,” a mezzo-soprana coos across tinny service.

“Sorry,” Zayn slips into a depreciating laugh, airy, “Karen.”

“ _It’s fine – just means you’re polite. So, how did he like the album?_ ” she asks conspiratorially, doesn’t waste time with small talk.

“I think he found it interesting… to say the least,” Zayn weaves his response carefully, avoids the gaze he can feel burning his profile.

“ _I’d just love to see some of your own baby pictures,” she gushes, “You’re just the most handsome man._ ”

A ridiculous flush eats its way at his neck, and he hopes Liam doesn’t take note. “They’re awful,” another nervous chuckle escapes, eyes tracing his steps as Loki trots in front of him with a curious tilt of the head. “But thank you very much, anyway.”

Liam’s mom releases her own giggle before, “ _I hope I’m not embarrassing you, love. Y’know, Liam’s just like that: trying for unbothered and brave as can be when really he’s always been such a shy boy._ ”

And – “Really?” Zayn stumbles over an inhale, unsureness leaving in the following exhale as his eyes search for Liam, who happens to be keeping a steady watch on him from the edge of the foyer, quizzical. “I think I actually see what you mean,” Zayn divulges, mental images of a less-than-all-together Liam flashing into account. Rare, only revealing itself to the sharpest eye.

“ _Oh, yes_ ,” Karen sighs, seems to shuffle around at her end of the line, “ _But those are stories for another time. How is the kitten taking to Liam’s flat?_ ”

“We’re actually in the process of assimilating him,” Zayn informs easily, relieved to be able to contribute something of worth to the conversation. “But I think he’ll like it plenty.”

“ _I’d just love to see pictures of Yoda too!_ ” she swoons, “ _Oh, look at me getting so excited. I better let you go before I pack my bags for Manhattan._ ”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Zayn insists, countenance showcasing a wrinkled forehead no doubt as he bolsters her stake in the conversation, “I’d actually love to show him off.”

“ _Don’t worry about it, dear; I’ll just bother Liam about it later. But for now I really should get going on dinner_ ,” she finalizes.

“Alright. It was great chatting with you, Karen,” a hand rubs at the back of his neck, feet pivoting.

“ _You’re such a pleasant boy, Zayn. Call me anytime._ ”

“Yeah,” comes out soft and breathless, a smile lifting his cheeks sluggishly. “Bye.”

It takes a moment after Mrs. Payne clicks off for Zayn to lower the phone, all the while trying to tame the fond swelling in his chest so that the guilt that eventually replaces it won’t be too burdensome. It’s one thing to play a man that just won’t let go. It’s another to play an unassuming mother.

“You okay, little bird?” Liam soothes after having made his way across the room to Zayn.

The younger boy focuses his vision away from the skyline, allows himself to lean into the palm against his lower back to scratch at Yoda where he’s purring in the cradle of Liam’s arms. “Yeah,” is a mumble.

Fuzzy brows assume their scrunched position, which seems all too usual as of the past few days. (Not that Zayn has much to go off of, but.) “Are you sure? Did me mum say something?”

Zayn can’t help but incline toward Liam’s thickened accent that’s prevalent when he mentions her, finds it a bit funny. “No, Li. It’s nothing,” he fibs with a palm over the man’s sternum.

“Alright, well, are you hungry? I’ve got salad that I shouldn’t waste, and we could pop a film in,” soft eyes sketch from the kitchen to the couch as his thoughts pop up.

And Zayn really cannot grasp why the fuck the man is so accommodating after all he’s been put through, can only hope that his other surprise of the night sets Liam’s rationale into process. “Actually, I’ve got tickets for tonight.”

“Tickets?” Liam’s ears practically perk up, tail begging to thump the floor from just the word ‘walk’.

“You won’t even believe, baby.”

| _Wednesday_ |

“Malik!”

“Nnnng,” Zayn groans, squeezing his eyes shut tighter and shielding out office gossip with his folded arms tucked against his ears, forehead wresting in the crook of his elbow.

“I went ahead and grabbed you a coffee, anyway. Cream and sugar,” Harry ignores Zayn’s sour mood and plops onto a cluttered table to lean against Zayn’s cubicle partition.

Its bittersweet aroma finds its way to Zayn’s nose, and he supposes that since sleep isn’t an option he might as well wake up enough to get through the rest of the day grog-free. It’s all bright light and tapping shoes, a sensory overload as soon as he lifts his head. And he thinks to change his mind about actively participating in society, but he sips at his warm beverage instead, nearly moans as the pungent taste flows over his tongue – sweet enough to swallow, and is that – tang?

“Is this a fucking joke, Harry?” Zayn growls. His eyes are still squinting against midday rays, and he’s sure his hair is a mess. “How the fuck did you manage to get orange in this anyway?”

“Compliment of the shop, babe,” goes along with a cheeky shrug.

The flavor isn’t bad, but the principle of the matter is that Harry is pushing for information on Liam, and Zayn doesn’t want to think about the man as of now. Zayn’s as bitter as his coffee, and he doesn’t care. So he blindly reaches to his left until his fingers brush against the bumblebee plush, pulls it in front of him to rest on. And astutely ignores his mate.

Not even a minute passes. “So are you ready to talk about it?”

Care is taken to breathe in through the nose, hold, and breath out through the mouth. After a few moments, Zayn resigns himself to getting it all off his chest. “We might as well wait until Zo’s back.”

He only gets ten more minutes of relative peace before Zoe makes her reappearance from a lunch date with Alf, regret crawling up Zayn’s throat because he can’t decide if he’d rather go back on his word and keep mum.

“Alright, Z,” Zoe huffs as she rolls her chair into the cubicle noisily, “even I’ll admit I _have_ to know what’s got you so bothered.”

A quick drawl of the only liquid encouragement he’s got, fingers twisting gel-free locks. Finally, Zayn turns his head to angle toward his confidants, rests the burden of his heavy thoughts with his elbows digging into his slack-clad knees. As if he’s about to inform them that there’s been a grave accident. And, well –

“He fucking _loved_ it,” is a rasped whisper, sinister almost.

Harry quirks a brow, politely wards off a shit-eating grin even though the dimple carving itself into his cheek is telling enough.

“Sorry?” Zoe lilts out a genuine question, legs crossing at the knee as she mimics Zayn’s forward lean.

“Louis got these tickets, right?” Zayn starts, fingers linking to give him somewhere to focus. “I was gunna hand them off to Wali, have her invite Fiz since they got on well enough for your birthday,” he nods to Zoe, who doesn’t bother to play as if she’s any warmer to the punchline.

“So I go to Liam’s and throw a strop about Yoda, make a production of that damned _Future_ album, but even _that_ didn’t really get to the bloke. He was a bit uncomfortable, yeah,” Zayn looks to his audience, “and shocked definitely, but he hasn’t called it quits yet, so you can see how far I’ve gotten.”

Zoe is frowning now, arms crossed. “Where do the tickets come in? What were they for?”

All the right questions. “Right,” Zayn nods, “Well I never did give them to me sister. Kind of forgot about them until me mum called the day of for a chat.”

“Anyway, I get Liam all hyped of because of ‘the tickets’,” he air quotes, waggles his eyebrows for effect, “making it seem as if I’m taking him to another Knicks game, and then I ended up dragging him to a Fifth Harmony concert.”

A silent ‘O’ warps Zoe’s mouth, eyes wide as well. Harry sinks down lower against the divide with bright eyes to press the back of his hand against his mouth. So at least some people are amused.

“And, like,” Zayn drags his hand through his hair again, lips quirking in the contagious atmosphere, “he was confused when we walked into Madison Square Gardens and I steered him left, but that’s it!”

Harry’s snorting by now, and Zoe’s cheeks have scrunched up to hide her eyes, and Zayn rides the momentum with eyes crazed from restless sleep: “He looked like a lost puppy for a bit, but he wasn’t _mad_. In fact, once he came to he wouldn’t stop bragging on a song he heard of theirs.”

“Which one?” Zoe gasps, intrigued, and it’s easy for Zayn to relate with his colleagues that just can’t stay away from the tabloids.

“Ugh,” he groans, face falling into his palm to smother a whimper, “he thought Reflection was so sick.”

“At least he’s got nice music taste,” Harry teases a bubblegum grin with arms wide out to seek support, tempo of his drawl only slightly quicker with animation.

“It’s not even about the preference, because, yeah, they’re playing at the Garden for a reason,” Zayn insists, “It’s the fact that Liam didn’t even care he was missing the big game to see a concert I tricked him into. He was dancing the whole time and even bought a shirt!”

The trio takes a moment to exhaust the situation of its hilarity, which Zayn didn’t know he needed. Comraderie among friends with eyes alive.

Eventually, Zoe wonders, “How did you end up with one of New York’s top lads?” Her chin rests on curled fingers, and Zayn doesn’t have an answer.

He shakes his head slowly, gaze on his shiny Oxfords that were a splurge from ASOS a few years back. “I have no clue, Zo.”

When Zayn finally looks up it’s to witness sly looks between Zoe and Harry, the former nodding before locking eyes with Zayn. “I still stand that you should reconsider writing the article.”

His sigh is hefty with defeat. “I already told you, Zo: I’ve put too much into this to just give up.”

“Zayn,” she softens condescendingly, as if she’s clearing up a child’s misunderstanding, “You can write about a breakup without actually ending it with Liam. You _like_ him, and he’s a great guy, yeah?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Zayn’s quick to draw: “I’ve done a lot of embarrassing shit that’s fucked up our thing already. I don’t want to build a relationship on lies.” There’s a wince because the statement is so cliché, but there’s a truth behind it at least.

There’s relative silence for a minute as Ben and – Bianca? – walk past, chatting away easily.

“He likes you enough to stick around. That should tell you he’s capable of handling rough patches in the long run,” Harry pipes up.

“That’s another thing: Would I really want to be with someone so durable? I know the shit I’ve done bothers him, but he doesn’t say anything about it, so there’s no real communication.”

“He might think you’ll go ape-shit on him if he tells you something you won’t like,” Harry snorts.

Zoe chuckles as well before, “Here’s this: if Liam doesn’t break up with you by day ten then you can fabricate the article’s finale, come clean to Liam, and see how it goes from there.”

And, well, the more often Zoe proposes such a plan the better an option it seems to be. But at the same time –

Zayn’s phone vibrates on the desk, and he doesn’t want to register the way his heart rate accelerates over the fact that it’s likely Liam.

> **Liam Payne:**  
>  Happy One Week, little bird. I want to take you somewhere nice this weekend. 

  
As if Zayn’s stomach can’t swoop any lower, the rose, monkey covering its eyes, and kissing heart emojis follow seconds after, which tugs a stupid grin to his face, and –

This isn’t good. It’s gone on way too long, and Zayn _does not want to cultivate a relationship_.

Features steeled, tired as ever with his energy-draining change of mood. “It ends tonight.”

**

Maybe Liam’s a little drunk. He’s aware of it, at least. And it makes Louis and Niall’s antics ten times funnier, so who cares if he’s losing a round of Hold ‘Em just because he can’t stop giggling?

“I say _’fuck it’_ to this game,” Louis exclaims, loud and brazen in the most endearing way, arms as wide as his wicked grin.

“Do you?” Niall chortles his way into a question, egging Louis on with glazed eyes and a thick tint to his speech.

“Oi, fuck off,” Andy rebukes. It’s brash, but Liam’s used to it. Andy’s asshole shines through with enough liquor is all. Luckily, it takes quite a lot to actually get him going, his large frame holding it easily.

Louis ignores Andy, answers Niall just to hear his own voice: “I do, Niall,” a smirk.

Everyone else around the table carries on the game without input, Maz tossing a few chips into the betting pool, Deaun burning a hole through his cards with a calculating gaze, Josh watching everyone else, bemused.

“You’re just saying that because you’ve gotten shit hands,” Liam hiccups a laugh, cheeks scrunching his eyes up to where Louis’s a blur of white t-shirt and blue denim.

“Liam, Liam, Liam,” the boy titters out, throws an arm around Liam’s shoulder that the latter leans into, “Right you are. ‘m so glad we’ve been able to learn each other so well.”

Liam laughs into the hearty squeeze to his shoulder, throws his right arm around Louis’s waist and tucks into his neck to reciprocate the sentiment. But – “Hey!” he jerks back, betrayal dripping from his features, “That’s cheating!”

The older boy merely widens his impish grin as Liam makes a show of hiding his splayed cards to his chest, neither confirming nor denying his accusations of hugging Liam to steal a glimpse of his hand. “Does it really matter, mate? We’re both losing.”

Conveniently, it’s Liam’s move, so he folds to reveal only a pair of twos before exclaiming, “I’m winning tonight either way. This is a celebration, after all.” It’s a triumphant beam that Liam owns.

“Here, here,” Niall throws a fist in the air, “Made quite a bit of improvement on that awful pitch.”

Andy guffaws at that, shoulders quaking. “Can’t believe your boy pulled through for us!”

And – oh, yeah. Zayn. Partial reasoning as to why Liam’s been more than just a social drinker for the night. Not wanting to reschedule Lads’ Night and needing a breather from Zayn’s clinginess anyway, Liam sent Zayn a text about treating him at the end of the week. And Liam really does just want a bit of a lax night to soak in the fact that Winston approved his pitch that he’s damn proud of now, to celebrate with his buddies that helped make it happen.

But Zayn never replied, and that worries Liam. Because if the boy’s done with him then Liam will never be able to pitch to the Dilaurentis no matter how much work’s been put into the project.

“What are you on about?” Maz aims for enlightenment.

Niall about falls out of his seat, cackling, and Andy straightens his spine to throw back his shoulders. “Oh, listen to this…”

Tuning it out, Liam thinks that maybe he shouldn’t go around shouting about his slightly unprofessional bets, but these are his boys. And Andy doesn’t know anything incriminating, anyway, just what he’s witnessed and heard from Niall.

Maybe at one point Liam would have stood up for Zayn, eccentric as he may be. But Liam’s had this sinking suspicion brewing for a while that he’s the butt of his date’s – _boyfriend_ ’s, soon-to-be fiancé’s, according to the man himself – own personal joke, and the alcohol charging in his system is doing little to encourage rationale, so –

“I need a smoke,” Liam declares, rises from his dining table as the rest of the guys entertain themselves off of his own misfortune. He won’t be missed too much.

**

Zayn’s once again stood outside of Liam’s penthouse, admiring the stained oak of the doorway, dark etches of a maze. He’s building up the courage to make his grand entrance, jangling the lone key in his right hand that he talked the landlord into creating for him. It’s amazing, truly, and a bit saddening as well what an amatory bat of the lash can get one from so-called professional adults.

And it’s a bit daunting setting out to destroy a relationship once and for all, but Zayn likes to consider it consolation the fact that by barging his way into Liam’s flat he’ll at least be letting the man know that security should be bulked up on.

With _now or never_ in mind, Zayn jabs his shiny key into the deadbolt and twists, pushes the heavy door open to submerge himself in a round of raucous laughter, his suspicions confirmed that on Monday Liam’s colleagues had tried to subtly remind the man of their plans without letting Zayn in on them.

(‘Daft’ is what he’d label Niall and Andy upon first impression if he were in the business of doing so. Alas, he is not.)

No indication of his presence becoming known reveals itself, so Zayn works up a deep inhale in order to call out when another figure rounds into the foyer, Zayn’s joints locking up and the oxygen knocked out of his lungs.

From his scruffy hair to scuffed _Vans_ , Louis Tomlinson stands in all of his not-quite-five-foot-nine glory across from Zayn, their eyes mirroring shock.

“What the _fuck_?!” Zayn finally hisses after a moment of stuttered breath, jaw tensing and shoulders rounding, arms open as if he’s about to attack, which, well –

Louis throws a quick glance over his shoulder before surging forward to twist his finger into Zayn’s _Rolling Stones_ shirt, spinning them both around and into the damned coat closet on the right. And he somehow manages to flick on the light before shutting them into the cubby.

It’s actually a bit spacious, Zayn can’t help but note. Prioritizing his thoughts, he speaks again: “If you make a ‘closet’ joke I’ll chop your dick off.” Aggressive, but better.

“What are you doing here?” Louis gets straight to the point, slightly frazzled. The fact that he doesn’t indulge in a chance to take the piss means something’s up. If the fact that they’re hid in a closet right now didn’t hint enough already, that is.

“How long have you known Liam was the guy for the article?” Zayn asks the real question instead. No room for chit-chat in his direct tone.

Louis almost deflates at that, looks to the floor and clasps his hands to hide fidgets. “He started mentioning this bloke he’s dating,” the boy nods to Zayn in indication, “’ _Zayn_ ’, and I wasn’t completely sure at first if it was actually _you_ , but then his asides about the guy’s antics got wild, so I put the pieces together.”

Another moment to consider. There’s something a bit _off_ about the explanation. Or maybe just something not quite there. But, then again, maybe it’s just the dingy lighting that’s leaving a rancid taste in Zayn’s mouth. Either way, seconds are ticking, and there are coat hangers digging into Zayn’s shoulder blade. “I’m guessing that Liam doesn’t know about the article if you’re having to keep our relationship a secret.”

A sneaky grin tugs up Louis’s mouth. “Hiding our relationship in the closet, yeah?”

“Louis,” Zayn snips in admonishment, ducks his head to rub over his forehead and conceal a pressing grin.

“Right,” the other complies, “No, Liam doesn’t know. I have to keep my mouth shut when he goes on about you.”

Butterflies awaken in Zayn’s stomach, but he’s not sure if they’ll turn into a stampede or not with his next question: “What all do you know?”

“Well, for starters,” Louis leans back with loose posture, apparently feeling as though there’s no longer a posed threat, “He kept going on about your mouth and arse.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Zayn’s volume sinks along with his stomach, “He _told_ you about that?”

Louis’s features widen as he grows even more amused, “Wait, you’ve actually put out? I was lying about that part, but isn’t this just fantastic? Now, tell me: I’ve seen him without a chub, but –“

“ _Louis_!” Zayn hisses yet again, face flushing with both anger and embarrassment over the fact that Louis played him. “Pack it in, you absolute wanker. I’m trying to be serious.”

“Fine,” the man raises his palm in surrender, knowing when he’s crossed a line even if late to apologize. “He likes you, alright?” Louis focuses his eyes on Zayn’s, “But you’re throwing him off with your back and forth from relatively normal to slightly insane.” Tone pitching on the end note, Louis rising on his toes because he just has to add entertainment to his productions.

“What’s been fucking with him the most?” Zayn pops back. He can feel his heart rate picking up, a steady thud against his chest, and he can’t decipher if he’s excited about possible improvement or anxious about being disliked. (It’s only natural to feel a twinge of hurt when criticized, alright?)

“No, no, no,” Louis synchronizes his ejection with backing away until he’s plastered to a wall, heavy coats now obscuring his left half as to where Zayn has to push them out of the way. “I’m not getting in this, Z. I’d like to be as far away as possible from this ticking time bomb.”

It’s not as if Zayn shouldn’t have expected as much. Still, he nods along with sloped shoulders, finger pads to his forehead in accession. After lagging seconds, “We don’t know each other.”

“Not at all,” is Louis’s response, standing at attention now that their impromptu meeting is coming to a close.

“Where’s Liam? How do we get out of here without anyone seeing?”

Louis cranes his neck toward the door, nearly pressing his ear to the wall as if using sonar to determine locale. “Liam might still be outside, but the lads are finishing up their game. How about I go out first and you wait until Liam comes back in to come out?”

“Yeah,” Zayn nods along, wets his lips, “’s fine.”

Eyebrows flick up with a flashing grin of “Happy Outing, mate,” and then Louis’s sneaking his way out of their hiding spot, darting back to the crowd.

Zayn’s not even able to shake his head at Louis’s antics before the slide of a glass door can be heard, a few “ _Payner_!s” being shrilled nonsensically. It’s quite a bit less nerve-racking the notion of acting a fool with Liam alone than having to put on a show around a handful of strangers. But Louis is out there, at least, and he’s in on the joke, so maybe it could be fun.

That’s what Zayn clings to, psyches himself up with before tip-toeing out of the closet, opening and closing the front door, and calling out, “Bumblebee? I’m home!” all in one go.

The atmosphere shifts abruptly. “Who’s that?” is harmless, “Are _you_ ‘Bumblebee’?” is snickered, and a shamelessly loud “ _Fuck_ ” rings out, all from unfamiliar voices. And all before Zayn’s even rounded past the foyer and onto the open floorplan.

“ _Zayn_ ” is intoned as rudely as the younger’s ever heard Liam (which isn’t saying much, but) when he shows himself to the group of men gathered in Liam’s dining area.

He plasters a grin to his face upon locking eyes with Liam, strides forward since the man’s motor neurons seems stuck on maintaining a dumbstruck expression, drool likely seconds away from slipping out of his slack mouth. Even before Zayn’s pressed to Liam he can smell rank alcohol and bitter smoke, and his raised arms easily fall heavily over Liam’s shoulders in confusion, expression likely conveying just as much.

Liam’s palms find Zayn’s hips as if second nature by now, but neither break the silence.

“I was going to let you kiss me, but you know I’ve told you not to smoke,” Zayn scolds condescendingly. It’s a lie because Zayn didn’t even know the man smokes, and it’s hypocritical because Zayn himself does as well. And this is a horrible situation, because he hears Louis cough out a poorly disguised laugh and wants to cut eyes at him, but – “Smells awful, Liam.” He wrinkles his nose and leans backward for good measure.

Instead of an admonishing spank and sure demeanor, Liam almost shrinks under the weight of Zayn’s presence, face heating slightly to angle his face away from his company. “What are you doing here?” is low and genuinely stunned.

Dying to play this line since he thought it up, Zayn chirps, “Oh, I tracked your phone with that Find My Friends app, and since it said you were home I decided to try out my new key!” It’s with an honest giggle that Zayn plays up his squealed excitement, knowing Louis will get a kick out of the new development.

Liam pulls completely away, hazy eyes and hands limp by his sides. “You _tracked my phone_?”

No. The app doesn’t actually work like that. “Yeah,” Zayn affects nonchalance, even shrugs his shoulders to trail his eyes around the flat, offhandedly put off that the animals are nowhere to be seen, “I installed the app on your phone yesterday, and your superintendent got me the key copy.”

It’s a statue-like Liam that Zayn eventually tilts away from, the man unreadable but obviously ill-pleased. Unfortunately, the only other place to lay his attention is on the handful of strangers centered round Liam’s dining room table, none of them even trying to act as if they’re minding themselves. “Are you going to introduce me to your little friends, pumpkin?”

At that Niall shoots his hand in the air as if a primary schooler. “Hey, Zayn!” There’s a glint in the boy’s eyes, and Zayn’s beginning to wonder if Niall’s always amused or just always intoxicated.

Nevertheless, “Hey, Niall.” Zayn steps closer to their circle, avoiding Louis’s gaze so as to not blow his cover.

“Josh, Maz, Deaun, Andy, Louis,” Niall rapid-fires names, “You’ll fuckin’ love this guy.”

Radio silence. Andy scoffs in dissent, two of the other three avoiding eye contact warily and the last holding a thoughtful gaze. It’s fucking awkward, but at least the professional side of Zayn can appreciate the fact that his persona is formidable enough to put off so many grown men.

Finally coming to, Zayn feels a firm hand above his bum, Liam positioning himself once again between Zayn and his guests. “Zayn…” is strained, the older man not quite meeting his eyes.

“Oh,” Zayn interrupts, “Don’t mind me, doll. I’ll just find myself something to eat and then watch the game.” Without further ado, he pats Liam’s chest and pivots toward the kitchen.

Being merely a few yards away, the kitchen isn’t much solace, unfortunately. But at least the bar and island serve as a barrier for Zayn to shield himself behind, turning his back and switching on the sink under the guise of cleaning up when really he just needs a few deep breaths.

He _thinks_. Tries to remember his mental check-list for possible ways to make Liam’s friends hate him, which might just be the answer to getting dumped. Blanks are drawn across the board, though, and his gaze falls to the floor, studying the white tile of the kitchen. Yoda’s food bowl has been moved to beside Loki’s and a decent amount is gone, which –

“Hey, Li-li?” Zayn questions, actually begins lathering up his hands.

“Yeah?” is called back, Liam already distracted with whatever card game they’ve started up.

Zayn begins tinkering around the kitchen, drying his hands off on a dish towel over the oven handle and then traipsing his way to the fridge. “Where are the babies?”

“Uh – the what? Oh! They’re upstairs.” The men have upped their conversation once again, the fragile aftermath of a mate having just gotten in trouble no longer the atmosphere, apparently. And Liam’s definitely occupied with his cards.

At this rate it’s looking like Zayn is well on his way to annoying the older man half to death. Or at least all the way to a breakup. So he takes his time opening the freezer ( _jackpot_ , he notes with mirth), placing a few frozen snacks into the microwave, drawing out silence just long enough for Liam to feel as if he’s in the clear conversation-wise.

“Did you put up the baby gate, then?” Zayn continues as he punches in a few minutes for the turnovers to heat, spinning around once they’ve started to make his way toward the dining area.

Liam is busy giggling like a schoolgirl, head thrown back with one hand to his mouth and the other cupping his thigh.

It’s a bit of a feat not getting distracted with the juxtaposition of Liam’s childlike cuteness and rugged build, but Zayn perseveres, steps between Niall and Liam to reiterate, “Did you put up the baby gate, Liam?”

Automatically the man looks up, merriment vanishing as confusion furrows his brow. “Uh, yeah.”

Zayn will blame his next move on the cuddliness of Liam’s appearance – grey joggers and a loose t-shirt, snapback covering tousled hair laid flat on his forehead. He tries to ignore the deafening quiet that’s infiltrated the area once again, uses his left hand to tug Liam’s arm off the table so as to set himself sideways across the man’s lap.

Liam adjusts to it easily, right arm looping around Zayn’s back to rest his palm on upper thigh, thumb wiggling itself to fit against the crevice between thigh and groin. He’s a bit stoic, though, quite sobered in demeanor, which is ironic.

Admittedly, the possessive hands spark a heat in Zayn’s abdomen, cheeks begging to sell him out as he skates his fingers to the back of Liam’s neck, tickles over the short hairs in reach. The man beneath him affects apathy, but Zayn isn’t entirely convinced, and maybe it has to do with the droop of exhaustion around umber eyes, hesitancy causing an avoidant gaze.

It’s not exactly thought out when Zayn knocks his head forward to jostle Liam’s hat and turns up a goofy grin, altogether taking the older man a bit by surprise as to where Liam’s eyes widen before he huffs out a low laugh.

Zayn mindlessly scratches over newly available hair, and Liam’s got an awakening sparkle in his eye, lips curved softly to shake his head. “Silly boy,” the latter tuts, a secret. Flicks off his hat and settles it backwards on Zayn’s head in one smooth motion, nuzzles a kiss over the untamed scruff of Zayn’s jaw.

The younger allows himself to melt into the affection, turn his cheek ever-slowly for a lingering skate of Liam’s lips to the corner of his mouth where they rest with the faintest pressure. Lazily flicking his eyes back open, Zayn’s confronted with two sets of eyes – Louis’s and Josh’s, and he just knows the others saw a bit as well into his and Liam’s bubble.

“Thank you for inviting me, by the way,” Zayn twists his neck to the right to catch Niall’s eye, high volume piercing through the laid-back ambiance that dimmed ceiling lights provide.

Niall is caught off-guard, eyebrow asking to cock as he leans back in his chair, drags an ankle over the opposite knee. “Uh –“

“It was adorable, though,” Zayn pops back in, leaning to the side, Liam’s hand reflexively shooting to his side in precaution while the younger pinches at Niall’s cheek, “how nervous you two were to bring it up.”

“Wait, what?” Liam intervenes, reshaping and steering Zayn’s position as if corralling a rambunctious toddler.

Zayn can’t help but want to _tsk_ at the poor fellow’s cheek turned cherry red under his attack. Nevertheless, he addresses Liam: “Oh, you know how Andy and Niall kept alluding to a Lads’ Night. Kept skittering around the topic.” He sends a saccharine smile to Andy who clearly isn’t taking the shit, countenance displaying his disbelief.

“I wasn’t sure about coming, but I wanted to surprise you, baby,” Zayn strikes a broad grin, hands cupping either side of Liam’s jaw before switching his focus to the people around them. “It’s our one week anniversary. Isn’t that exciting?”

Their game has been paused since Zayn found a seat on Liam’s lap, his friends a bit on edge, it seems. But they all let out faux-cheery confirmations, inharmonious. It’s amusing watching them all awkwardly suffer. Cringe-worthy acting skills. Luckily, the microwave goes off, offering escape for Zayn to wiggle out of Liam’s lap to go check on it.

Like before, chatter gradually escalates the further Zayn gets from Liam’s company, and he almost wants to tune in to see if they’re talking about him. But instead he cautiously lifts the plate from the microwave, hopes the aroma isn’t strong enough to alert any of the other guys. It’s a bit of a process banging around the kitchen as quietly as possible whilst looking for a cutting board, and once it’s found Zayn’s a bit paranoid someone will come into the kitchen, but slicing the turnover into bite-size rolls and transferring them to a china plate Zayn took down from its mount on top of the shelf (which screams ‘ _do not touch_ ’) is relatively easy. Messy, but easy.

It’s just a few minutes later, but the card table is back to their drunken laughter, so Zayn takes a moment to chuckle over the absurdity of the snack he’s prepared. Still, he thinks he can do better, so he ventures to the fridge based on a remembrance of the prior night. _Perfect_.

When the party favors are garnished Zayn waltzes back out of the kitchen and unceremoniously plops the dish in the middle of the table. Right on top of the betting pool. “Hope you’re all hungry, boys.”

A dragging silence.

“Is that a _Hot Pocket_?” one brave soul asks, incredulous. Deaun, maybe.

Instantly, Niall cracks up, tosses his head back to cackle unintelligibly.

Louis is wide-mouthed but speechless for a change.

“Yep!” Zayn chirps, hands on his hips, “And left-over salad.”

“Wasn’t that dish mounted?” Liam softens as if he doesn’t know the answer.

“Quite high up, pumpkin. Honestly, we’ve got to find a better spot for it so I can reach it easier,” Zayn proclaims off-handedly, skirts his eyes around the semi-circle.

Such a touch crowd, honestly. They all just blink owlishly for a bit until Liam leans forward to take the honor. “Thank you, baby,” he stresses, holds a pitiful pepperoni Hot Pocket slice in his hand next to a lone baby carrot. The crunch is auditory, Liam’s friends diving in enthusiastically to follow lead.

 _Yikes_ is all Zayn can surmise as he watches Liam’s jaw strain, voice tight with frustration. “Good boys!” is what Zayn says next, tone babying and slightly antagonizing.

This time he takes off for the washroom by the entrance, needs actual walls between him and everyone else in order to figure his next move. Fortunately, an idea comes quickly while he’s washing the Hot Pocket’s red sauce off of his hands.

There’s a decorative towel in an ornate twist reflecting behind Zayn in the mirror, so he switches on the hot water and works to untie the cloth from its rail, running a good portion of it under the heated water and ringing it out slightly before shutting off the faucet and trekking back to the dining table, water dripping down his hand and onto the floor like a trail of breadcrumbs.

Either by reflex or conditioned response, the decibel level ranging from the group’s conversation negatively correlates with Zayn’s proximity, them growing mute as soon as Zayn’s halted to Liam’s right, fretting, “Oh, goodness, we need to clean you up, Li-li.”

The man doesn’t have time to respond, open mouth and choked off response frozen by Zayn grabbing Liam’s hands himself and scrubbing them with the damp cloth, drying them off with the other end before swiftly grabbing Liam’s chin and swiping off his cheeks even though nothing is on them.

Liam flinches, tries to lock into hold Zayn’s wrist, but the younger lad avoids the shackle, turns to the others with an expectant, innocent gaze. “Does anyone else need this?”

A chorus of ‘ _no_ ’s resound, a couple of head shakes and averted gaze, but Andy’s answer sticks out: “Fuck no, mate.” Brash by any account, rude.

Not that Zayn has much of a problem with it, but he figures Article Zayn might. Playing up the damsel in distress, Zayn lets his features crumple slightly as he leans against Liam.

“Andy,” Liam warns as his arm goes wide to accommodate Zayn, reaching up to rest a palm in the center of his back.

“I was just trying to help, but that’s alright,” Zayn near-whimpers, makes sure his tone is quiet and eyes downcast.

He finds himself cajoled onto Liam’s lap, the older lad looking to lock eyes as he assures, “You’re fine, little bird. Why don’t I teach you how to play, hmm? Would you like that?”

Zayn takes a moment, cuts his eyes as best he can to discretely consider everyone else’s demeanor, pleased that the collective body language spells uncomfortable. “Sure,” he sighs, offers a tiny quirk of his lips.

“Ace,” Liam, such a mother bear, enunciates, squeezes Zayn’s hip as he begins explaining the rules and procedures of the game.

A few minutes later Zayn has the rundown, Liam animated in teaching, the tension intertwined among the group mostly eased, mouths blabbering. And Zayn is beginning to genuinely enjoy himself with Niall and Louis a riot together, Maz and Josh genial souls, and Deaun and Andy loudly commentating.

He figures it’s time to move on to his next phase. “I’m taking the dish to the kitchen, Li.”

“Huh? Alright,” he asides distractedly, more caught up in Maz and Andy’s dialect. Still, he pats Zayn’s hip in assent.

Zayn picks up the towel off the floor from where he dropped it, frowns in pity over the area of floor it slicked up, is about to make his way around the table when –

“Is that from the bathroom, Zayn?” an incredulous ask.

“Oh, yeah,” Zayn drops his gaze to the gaudy cloth before continuing his lap around the table, reaching between Josh and Maz to pick up the Chinaware that’s been cleared of food since Liam hinted that it should be eaten. “It was just hanging on the towel rack looking ridiculous, so I figured I should put it to use.”

A truly mystified looks crosses over Liam’s face, features gradually working to relax but instead just appearing irritated because of the struggle. Nothing is said, and his friends have quietened once more.

Zayn rounds behind Andy, affords a glance at his cards as he did to the others’. “Did you say a Straight has five cards in sequential order?”

Immediately Andy slaps his cards face-down, twists around toward Zayn. “What the fuck, man?”

It’s a bit of a battle not to laugh, and Zayn just manages it by brisking away and calling over his shoulder, “I guess that’s my answer, then.”

This time, Zayn doesn’t have to strain to eavesdrop.

“Andy, it’s fine,” Liam ensures.

“He fucking told you my hand!” Andy near outrages in response.

Zayn winces from the kitchen, is partially relieved when Josh and Liam argue on his behalf for compensation via getting his chips back instead of pounding Zayn’s face in. But at the same time he’s finally getting a rise out of people, and it would be of no benefit to stop now.

The whole night’s been a process of stop and start, constantly having to grapple for his next move, and this time is no exception. But he’s a bit desperate to hit Liam while the mood is still rough, so as soon as his eyes fall on the damned mini cactus by the sliding glad door a gasp escapes.

“Liam! What have you done to our plant?” he rushes to it, squats down to cup it in his hands. And he feels a bit like the lead in the climax of a play, all eyes on him.

The man has to stand up to see what exactly is happening, hand outstretched as if searching for a response. “I just put it there so we could use the table, Zayn.”

“Right, and next you’re just going to toss it off the balcony so you have room to piss off the edge, yeah?”

“Wha –“ is grunted, Liam cutting off a his brows furrow, “That doesn’t even –“

“And it’s not even been watered, Liam!” Zayn laments, stands from his crouch to reveal his disgust. “What am I supposed to make of this?”

Lowly, someone questions, “Cactuses have to be watered?”

Not even an act, Zayn is prepared to square up against the perpetrator. “Any halfwit knows that you have to water cactuses.” It’s maybe harsher than intended, but.

“Zayn!” Liam berates.

“Oi, sod off, Liam,” he slurs, eyes actually slitting, “How am I supposed to respect you when you’ve thrown away my gift to you? Does this mean you’ll just push aside our relationship as well?”

“It’s a fucking plant, Zayn!” the man retorts, louder than they’ve reached as of yet with enough malice in his roar to actually stump the younger. Face heated and muscles bulging in wide arms.

Such a scene in so little time, Zayn thinks. And as levelly as possible, already stepping forward, “I’m leaving so you can think about what you’ve done, and I’m taking this cactus with me.” To make good on his word, Zayn hastes to the door.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Liam trails the younger, apparently still keyed up as he breathes deeply and keeps the door shut with his body propped on one hand.

Intimidating is what it is, Zayn never having seen Liam so intensely agitated. “Let me go, Liam,” he says calmly, still assertive.

“I want to know what the fuck is going on,” he ignores the younger’s request.

Annoyed now, actually feeling a bit hot under the man’s overbearingness, Zayn twists the doorknob and elbows Liam just heavily enough to get him to back up. “ _Move_.”

But the man follows anyway, yapping at Zayn while the younger jabs the call button for the elevator. Hopefully it’s not at ground floor.

“Tell me what that was, Zayn,” Liam demands, standing tall with a puffed out chest.

He decides to play dumb. “I don’t think I know what you’re talking about.”

A grunt is uttered before Zayn is manhandled around, suddenly up against the wall with Liam’s arms caging him against it, no choice but to look up at the man. “You know exactly what I’m talking about: you’re up then you’re down, here and there, and I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you half the time.”

“Oh, so you think I’m some type of mental?” Zayn plays along, crosses his arms and leans back as far as he can manage to glare at dark eyes and red lips. (He won’t admit that Liam is an ungodly kind of sexy whilst angry.)

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Liam throws his hands up, finally creates space between them just to begin articulating with his hands, “I never said you’re insane, but you’re _acting_ insane, and I don’t know why you try so hard at it.”

The elevator _ding_ s, and Zayn nearly curses in relief, worming his way along the wall to the elevator’s open doors. “I resent that, Liam.”

The bloke fucking leans against the elevator door, blocking it from closing and content as ever to be doing so. “Let’s see, just tonight you dismantled two of my decorations – one of which is actually a bit of an heirloom, thanks – insulted me mates, and had a strop over a plant that can go much longer than five bloody days without water.” He physically ticks off his fingers as he goes, which may be the most annoying part.

Again, the elevator _ding_ s to indicate an object in its way.

Zayn actually thinks to pat himself on the back for all he accomplished in one evening. “You know, I don’t think I can be with someone who likes to exaggerate my faults and tries to use them against me,” he shrugs, pushes the ground floor button in hopes that Liam will get the hint.

“Yeah?” the older asks sardonically, possibly bothered that he’s not been able to rouse Zayn’s attitude (which is a bit ironic, but), “Well I don’t think I can be with someone who tries to play me for a fool every chance he gets.”

And that. Well. That actually strikes a cord, the guilt that Zayn’s been able to quell now seeping through the crack Liam struck in the dam. He does his best to conceal his emotions, though, arms tight across his chest with one foot crossing over the other. “So I guess that means we’re over then.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Liam huffs, finally moves back, but his anger is what’s propelling him, arms thrown around with a stinging drip to his words.

A last effort maybe, but Zayn prefers to call it a truce. “Bye,” he mutters just before the doors close, still locked gaze with a roughened Liam as he backs away.

There’s no response.

**

“ _Fuck_ ,” Liam hisses as his head falls against the outside of his entrance. He thinks he might should run off a mile to release all built up frustration. A bit embarrassed mostly, doesn’t want to go back inside and have everyone take the piss. The fact that it’s _his_ apartment has Liam scrunching his eyes closed for one last deep breath before twisting the knob.

Everyone is suspiciously quiet, Louis actually eyeing Liam while the others lounge around the table unwatching.

Liam briefly considers going back to their cards, acting as if he kissed the person he’s seeing _goodbye_ rather than broke it off entirely. But the game kind of _is_ ruined because of Zayn, and Liam is too preoccupied trying to wrap his mind around what the hell just happened, what’s been going on since he started seeing Zayn to play it all off.

“It’s over,” he concludes, lets his eyes hit the floor as he works his shoulder into some type of shrug.

“Bro,” Deaun speaks first, slightly apologetic, “Fuck that, yeah?”

“Quite right,” Andy scoffs, “He’s mad, bro,”

And Liam doesn’t want to hear that, doesn’t think much will come from insulting Zayn. He’s about to ask them all to forget about it when Louis suddenly denies, “No,” sets his features in stone and grabs Niall’s arm to walk at Liam, repeating, “No, No.”

“Wha –?” Liam cuts off as he’s forced backward by his two friends until they all end up to the side of his kitchen and beside the laundry room, an illusion of secrecy with a wall to his back and door to his left.

“You can’t do this, mate,” is what Louis starts with, “What about the bet?”

Sudden realization flashes across Niall’s face in a widened mouth and eyebrows shot high. “He’s right, Payno.”

Liam just doesn’t want to think about it. Not about how one man could make him feel so perplexed and not how because of it he’s lost a pitch. “Look,” he shakes his head, “What’s done is done, and I don’t even think he was much into me anyway –”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Niall barks out in a laugh, cheeks rushing blood, “The lad worships the ground you walk on!”

“It’s true,” Louis insists so easily, arms crossed and a nod, “He seems right smitten with you from what I can tell.”

Liam perhaps would like to explore that topic further because he’s lost on what the others are seeing. Besides the one night on the couch Zayn has always acted as if in control. One step ahead of the game, unaffected by Liam. But, “I broke up with him,” he stresses, an anchor in his stomach dragging it down the longer he ruminates on the fact that he just gave up, let a huge business deal go down the drain, “What am I supposed to do about it now?”

“Go catch him!” Niall urges.

Playing along despite the absurdity of the suggestion, Liam asks, “And what do I say? The boy has standards, take my word.”

“You’re a charmer, Li,” Louis expresses as if it’s obvious, “Suggest couples’ therapy or summat. Be creative.”

Liam can’t help his heart rate tripping, feet urging to move now that the seed has been planted that he could fix what he just messed up. Still, “I’m not creative, Lou. I don’t know how to get him back.”

“Liam,” Louis says evenly, but its bold, “He likes you, and you like him. Just go talk to him, tell him you’re sorry.”

And, yeah, maybe part of the problem is that Liam is so thrown off by Zayn. Minus the crazy, though, he’d like to get to know the boy further. Learn the way he tics and what interests him, what draws that breathtaking smile to his face. And if Liam’s closest mates are saying there’s chemistry then maybe he _can_ fix it, set the Dilaurentis Deal back on track, continue seeing an overall remarkable boy in the process.

“Yeah?” Liam queries, seeking one last reassurance before he sets off to possibly make a fool of himself. But he doesn’t have much to lose, so.

“ _Yes_ ,” Louis avers, “Go, mate, or you’ll regret it.”

Niall nods along encouragingly.

“Alright, yeah,” Liam nods his head and begins jumping on his toes to psych himself up. “Fuck, I’ve got to go,” he curses before darting forward and to his door, hopes Louis or Niall will offer the rest of the guys an explanation.

Dilemma is faced right outside of Liam’s apartment in choosing between the elevator and stairs. On the one hand, the elevator is likely at ground floor, and it takes a good bit of time to travel, but the staircase Liam doesn’t want to venture right now. He’s running out of time, though.

He’s winded by the time he reaches the lobby, can’t think to be bothered too much, though. With heaving inhales he exits the complex, jerks his head left and right in search for the damned boy he sent off, shouts “Zayn!”

The younger is a good ways down the sidewalk, likely looking to hail a cab when he turns around at his name.

Hands clasped behind his head, Liam grunts once before jogging off toward Zayn. “Wait,” he pleads, added effect in his pitiful appearance, surely.

Up close, the boy’s expression reads plainly puzzled, appearance softened with sloped shoulders and a damn mini cactus clutched to his chest. The night has a chill to it, cloudy, and Liam for a moment can only imagine drawing the boy in to comfort rather than reflect on the moments when the sleeping snake of a boy has coiled up to strike.

Dropping to his knees may be a bit melodramatic, but Liam can’t quite stop himself from presuming the position, hands reaching to interlock with one of Zayn’s through still-deep inhales. “Hear me out, sweetheart. Please.”

“Liam, get up,” is a crooning sigh off the pillow of Zayn’s lips, the man appearing even more vulnerable with Liam watching the underside of his jaw.

“I –”

“Breathe,” Zayn orders. Slowly his shoulders draw back, puppy eyes narrowing as his eyebrows tug down slightly.

Liam plays with the thought that the boy doesn’t mean to come off as intimidating, merely assumes the position naturally. Still, Zayn continues to conjoin their hands, thumb slowly rubbing warmth, and it draws hope into Liam’s chest.

Breath about evened, toeing just so nearer, “That got out of hand, Zayn, and I apologize for it.”

The boy’s head tilts almost toward dispute, mouth puckering as if about to do so vocally.

“No, honestly, Zayn. Just let me say something, alright? Please.” Liam’s continued erratic heartbeat will surely give away the fact that it’s not due to the cardio, but Liam doesn’t much care in the moment.

Zayn’s features settle on easy restraint, still troubled in a fretful brow, but he nods his consent. And he doesn’t try backing out of their close proximity.

“I’m nervous,” Liam blurts out as his opener, laughs at himself because he’s such a goof-up. Zayn’s thumb sweeps over his knuckle despite. “I don’t do this often, yeah? I mean, I’ve dated, but –” he glances up as a hiccup, gauges how the younger boy is receiving even just the first few notes from his mouth – “Well, it’s a bit of a story.”

“Liam,” Zayn utters, tugs on their tied hands, “it’s fine.”

“No,” Liam insists, holds the back of Zayn’s hand to his sternum in a step closer, “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I’ve not been able to learn you properly, is the thing, and I’m a bit overwhelmed, but I want to see where this can go for us.”

Zayn’s eyes are downcast and to the left, ears interested, but there’s a moue of discontent present, so Liam cranes his neck to try and garner the boys attention, propositions, “I know I was out of line, baby, but I’ll do anything to work it out. Like, my buddy suggested couples’ therapy, and even that I’ll be willingly to do.”

 _Fuck it_ , Liam decides, swoops down a degree to nose at Zayn’s cheek. The boy doesn’t retreat, so Liam manages to tune out honking traffic and the occasional pedestrian, lets the orange backlight of a near lamp pole encase them in their own atmosphere. “Z?”

Finally, he tilts back and catches eyes with Liam. “Couples’ therapy?” It’s more a confirmation than askance.

“Yes. Whatever it takes,” Liam receives his inch and runs a mile, rubs a kiss over Zayn’s jaw.

“I do know a guy,” the boy’s thoughtful, looking up as if working logistics in his mind, subconsciously leans further into the older man’s heat.

“Yeah?” Liam prompts, lips twitching helplessly up as emotion widens his chest.

“I can call and schedule an emergency session. Tomorrow afternoon, alright?” Zayn locks eyes with Liam again.

“That’s just fine, sweetheart,” Liam confirms, “I just want to be able to prove myself.” In more ways than one.

Unreadable eyes rest on Liam’s until they break away again. “I better be going. I’ll text you the details tomorrow.”

Liam decides not to push it, presses his lips just over Zayn’s first two knuckles, waits for the flickering gaze and holds it for a few seconds before letting their hands untangle. “Thank you, little bird. Be safe.”

Zayn nods, tucks his previously warmed hand into his jacket and turns back toward the main street with just one glance back over the shoulder when he reaches the corner.

| _Thursday_ |

Zayn actually feels a bit bad that Liam’s money will be taken in whatever amount. He knows the transaction must be done in order to maintain the legitimacy – however false – of the session, but still. Maybe he can find a way to wheedle the money back and slip it once again into Liam’s pocketbook.

Also, Liam’s dressed to impress. Zayn can’t quite tell if it’s something he’d normally wear to work or if it’s compliment of the special occasion, but he knows that the dark jeans in question hug Liam’s backside just enough to give a voluptuous allusion and that the tweed blazer broadens his shoulders even further. It’s distracting, and Zayn thinks there’s potential to cultivate a hate for one Liam Payne.

Every time those thoughts creep up he reminds himself that Article Zayn has fallen dormant for too long. “You’ve gone over the questions I sent you?”

“Yes, babe,” Liam near-whistles, hands in his pockets and content as ever.

They’re rounding the corner, close to the flat where the session will be held. It’s all familiar the scenery, assortments of flowers hanging from various windowsills catching first bloom. “I don’t want you making us looks foolish, Liam. I swear, if you hesitate on my birth name or favorite color –“

“Are you nervous?” Liam jumps in with a curious grin growing larger exponentially.

“No,” Zayn answers automatically – the truth.

Liam is a bit put-off by the statement, possibly expecting at least a hint at confirmation.

A few more yards and Zayn finds himself birthing nerves right in front of the cute, residential, ground-level flat, golden number a plaque on cheap, black wood. He’s anxious to see if he’ll accidentally let something on too revealing. Not that he did when Louis was around him last night, but this time will be different.

“Zain Javadd; green,” Liam offers, soft eyes turned left toward Zayn as his chest faces the door. His accent rounds on the syllables a bit awkwardly, but he’s trying, and that’s something.

Apparently Zayn’s held them up a few moments extra. He knocks.

The door swings open to reveal Harry in a white, embroidered tunic with what looks to be black leggings as bottoms. He’s shoeless, hair done up in a bun with fake prescription glasses that are suspiciously shaped just like his retro-looking YSLs. “Liam Payne. Zayn Malik,” he states, “Welcome.”

Zayn thinks he might crack under the stress of the situation, so he leans back against Liam as Harry turns to walk deeper into his flat. Liam squeezes at his hips, and Zayn lets out a laugh against his neck.

“Be _have_ ,” Liam warns as he tilts forward slightly to stoop over the younger, likely thinking Zayn’s making fun of their therapist. Which, well.

A playful bite at Liam’s jaw is his standing response.

The apartment is immaculately clean, Zayn notes. Blinds pulled up, curtains drawn away. And _fuck_ – Harry probably put them up to take the piss: Crème base, blooming roses. Zayn can admit they look alright, but he’ll gladly rip them down if it means Liam not being able to recognize them as the matching set to his new bathroom.

Having been on autopilot whilst imagining having to burn curtains and throw Harry on top of the fire, Zayn comes to and finds himself on Harry’s sofa, Liam to his right and Harry in an armchair that he spun up from seemingly nowhere.

“Before we begin, can I ask how you’ll be paying for the session?” Harry queries, crosses one knee over the other and straightens his spine.

“Oh!” Liam leans sideways to fumble in his pocket, produces a pen and checkbook. “Who should I make it out to?”

“You can call me Edward, but that’s not the name under my account,” Harry supplies, and Zayn’s thankful that the lad thought ahead enough not to offer his first or last name.

“Okay,” Liam concedes, slightly strained. Zayn rests his palm on the man’s knee in hopes that it’s reassuring. “Amount?”

“$300,” Harry informs, no hesitation.

“Uh, no,” Zayn retorts automatically, slitting his eyes at Harry before twisting his torso towards Liam to frown up at him. “Don’t pay him that.”

Liam flashes eyes awkwardly to Harry and back, lowers his chin for an air of privacy. “Zayn –“

“That’s twice the going rate, Liam,” Zayn insists, fingers digging in to the man’s bicep and voice unashamedly loud.

“ _Zayn_ ,” The man starts again, much more authoritative now, “It’s a last minute, one-time session. And you said he’s good, yeah?”

Zayn doesn’t bother replying, smooths over Liam’s coat where his nails indented. Article Zayn might continue arguing, and so might actual Zayn if they were visiting a certified therapist for legitimate reason, but the money won’t actually be drawn from Liam’s bank account. Checks are easily ripped up, after all.

Liam’s tone softens, “Don’t worry about it, little bird.” He presses a kiss to Zayn’s temple.

That tugs Zayn alert, at least. Makes him want to jerk away as well since Harry will only eat the physical affection up. But Zayn doesn’t want to draw attention to the gesture nor create suspicion in that he’d be discouraging such a mild form of PDA for the first time.

“Let’s commence, shall we?” Harry prompts with his gaze downward, jotting away on a brandished notebook.

Zayn’s beginning to wonder what all he’s hiding underneath his oversized cloth of attire.

Liam nods even though Harry isn’t looking, leans forward on his elbows and steeples his fingers.

“Can I ask about your sex life?” Harry whips his head up, pen poised.

Zayn thinks to kindle that fire he imagined, but Harry is eyeing Liam.

“Um, satisfying?” Liam gets out relatively smoothly, “I’m not sure I quite know what type of answer you’re looking for.” A grated chuckle.

Harry laughs as well, but it does nowt to ease Liam’s tense posture. “I only ask because you two seem rather comfortable with one another. Your body language says as much, at least.”

That’s a load of bullshit, Zayn thinks, nearly spews aloud: Liam has inched slightly away from him, is still leaning forward as if ready to bolt. “We’d like to move on, I believe.” It’s surprisingly terse.

Harry finally looks to Zayn, mirth twisting on the corner of his lips. At sight of Zayn’s hardened stare, though, it disappears with a clearing of the throat. “You’ve been seeing each other eight days, correct?”

Confirmation from both Zayn and Liam.

“And what are your intentions with one another?” Eye contact lingers briefly before Harry’s back to his notepad.

Zayn should have known this would have been Harry’s version of Best Friend versus Boyfriend. He can find little humor in the situation as he’s on the defensive, though.

Liam sits back up, tilts toward Zayn to search his eyes. “We’d like to continue seeing each other as long as the relationship remains healthy.”

It’s a bit of a posed question for Zayn, so the younger loops his arm with Liam’s, rests his laced fingers on Liam’s forearm, and picks up, “Yes, Edward: what my boyfriend said. But – if it helps – you can think of this as premarital counseling.”

“Oh!” Harry dramatically brightens, joyous grin hiding the underlain hysterics. “You’re engaged, then?”

“Well,” Zayn drags out as he feels Liam shift beside him, “He’s planning on proposing soon.”

Harry offers an appraising expression as he tucks one leg under himself. “Liam, this is true?”

“Of course it is,” Zayn jumps back in, “We’ve already discussed the parameters for his big question, and he’s very excited.” Zayn squeals in Liam’s ear and smacks a wet kiss to his cheek, has to actually put effort into bouncing on the age-old couch cushions. “Also,” he turns back to Harry as if by added thought, “We’re remaining abstinent until we’re at least engaged, so that might help answer your question on our sex life.”

“Zayn,” Liam trains, visibly scoots away this time so as to twist more toward the younger, “I feel like we should be discussing these things privately in order to reach agreement.”

Jerking his arms away, Zayn tugs his eyebrows together and lets his jaw fall down. “Are you ashamed of us, Liam?”

“No,” he replies, tone firm and eyes steady, “but this is what I’m talking about, Zayn.”

“Do you see this?” Zayn throws his left arm out, palm up in askance of Harry, “He always turns the blame on me, Edward.”

“Well –“ Harry starts, shifts forward with a crinkled brow.

“What are you even going on about, Zayn? I ask for an inch and you take a mile backward.” He’s serious, right arm mirroring Zayn’s left, brown eyes wide and dark.

Quietly, because the other two are expectant of Zayn apparently, “I’m not sure if you can combine two colloquialisms – no, euphemisms? – and retain desired effect.”

Liam doesn’t respond verbally. Instead, his head knocks back slightly as his spine straightens. Then, he slowly brings his elbows to his knees and rests his head in his hands.

Harry’s eyes are round in question. His voice, though, is inspiringly professional: “Take a breath if you need to Liam; collect your thoughts.”

“Oh, he’s got a bit of an anger issue,” Zayn stage-whispers as his smooths a palm between Liam’s shoulder blades.

“I don’t have anger issues,” the man dissents, straight-edged and nearly cutting as he lifts his gaze back up. “You always take what I say or do the wrong way and exaggerate it thrice over.” His eyes are squinted, corners of the mouth downturned as if disgusted before a scoff scrapes passes his lips. “Oh, wait, was the way I used ‘thrice’ funny?”

A bit taken aback by the passion behind Liam’s sentiment, Zayn leans away from the man, tongue lost on anything to utter.

“Alright, okay,” Harry steps in, slow drawl more annoying than easing for Zayn, “Let’s try to keep this a positive space for the rest of our time. Let’s hear each other out.” He waits for a nod from both parties. “Good. Now, Liam, continue if you will.”

The older is still hunched over, focusing on his intertwined fingers. “I just regularly feel inadequate as per Zayn’s standards, I guess?” He lets his eyes wander up. Not toward Zayn, but around the living area of the flat. “Like no matter what I do it’s not enough. And I guess that’s a major issue for me in trying to grow a relationship.”

“Li,” Zayn can’t help but mutter in response, dares to wrap his arm back around Liam’s, fingers wresting over his wrist as they itch to trace the tender skin, “Inadequate? If anything, that’s me; you’re so perfect.”

The older laughs again, begins to shake his head.

“No, Liam, really,” Zayn promises as his right hand floats to Liam’s thigh, left cupping his forearm, “You’re so successful already and adaptive to circumstance – at least from what I can tell. And you’re polite and good-natured, and you always try to take care of me before yourself.” He pauses for breath, tries not to rest on the implication behind his declarations. Head tilting to rove over the man’s expression, “And you’re so charming, Liam, fit. You’re the ultimate package.”

He appears mildly stunned when he looks up to Zayn and locks eyes. There’s a faint blush coloring his cheeks ballet pink. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“That was beautiful, boys,” Harry interjects before Zayn has a chance to respond, and Zayn is appreciative of it. “You were honest about a concern and it was disputed calmly. Now, can either of you come up with a suggestion as to fixing the disconnect between perception and reality?”

Liam shifts again to angle toward Zayn, left hand rising to hold the younger’s chin. “It’s just nice to hear that every once in a while,” comes out hushed, a bit too intimate for an audience, but.

“Okay,” is just as soft, Zayn’s cheeks heating under the praise, hand having moved with Liam’s arm and right fingers picking at the inseam of artfully ratty jeans.

“Following that trail,” Harry calls attention with a considerably loud voice as he scribbles away at his notes, “Can we have you, Zayn, share your main concern regarding the relationship?”

With awaiting eyes on him, Zayn feels like this is an actual therapy session, and not even Article Zayn has anything to comment on under the pressure. “Um,” he tries, can’t grab a train of thought.

“Take your time, little bird.” Liam’s arm curling around his waist does little to prompt him, but it is prelude to him focusing on what to say so as not to melt into the embrace.

“The future,” Zayn finally blurts out. And, really, all of those worries revolve around the fact that the relationship is a sham and it can only end badly, but he’s already said it, so he formulates an acceptable explanation: “Anything that hints at Liam and me building a life together he doesn’t take well to. Like, I added some personal touches to his flat and he never commented on them, and he wasn’t very excited about an album I made about our future life.”

Liam had stilled as the detailing went on, Zayn successfully creating an awkward situation. “Zayn, you did those things without my knowing. You kind of sprung both the decorations and album on me out of nowhere, and I was confused because I didn’t even realize you were much interested in me.”

“So are you closer to the same wavelength as per what your continued relationship would look like?” Harry prompts as Zayn doesn’t immediately respond to Liam, needing time to regroup because Liam’s qualification was rather reasonable and not something too easily twisted.

“I do hope to settle down one day, have kids, relax,” the older man takes it upon himself to answer, “But, Zayn, at this moment I’m focused on my career. Don’t get me wrong: I want to see you and treat you, but we’ve only been seeing each other a week. Hell, we’ve not even met each other’s friends or families.” Liam’s confidence seems to grow the further he goes on, and now he’s leaned on his elbows again, casual with a half-smile as if waiting for someone to applaud his point.

And Zayn would. He’s on the exact same page, actually. His career is first currently, and even though he didn’t have intentions of actively seeking a romance, he would gladly continue seeing Liam under different circumstances.

But he can’t relay any of that, is the thing. He can’t laugh out all the weight on his shoulders with the explanation of ‘ _You’ve been punk’d, mate_.’ He doesn’t want bad blood between them, and informing Liam of the means behind their troubles would surely not sit well. Ideally, if Liam is bothered enough by the relationship then he’ll leave thinking he’s won because he’ll have escaped, but Zayn will have won as well regarding an article. And Zayn’s aiming for the win-win.

“Technically I _have_ met your friends, Liam. And your mother, kind of,” Zayn straightens, lets condescension sink back onto his tongue.

“Yeah, but,” Liam grapples for his lost ground, “That was per your own schemes, not consent.”

Zayn lets his features fall in exasperation, turns to Harry as if they’re the only two in on the joke (which, well –), “One step forward, two back,” he huffs.

“I just meant –“

“No, I get it,” Zayn cuts off Liam, shrugs his shoulder and avoids eye contact with the man, “you really _are_ ashamed of me, want to keep me your dirty little secret.”

Harry’s mouth puckers in question, pen raised before his lips flatten out, hands falling as he’s cut off.

“Wait, wait. I’m sorry, baby; I didn’t mean it that way. You can meet my family whenever you want,” Liam’s voice is cooing, palm heavying itself to Zayn’s thigh as the other arm squeezes his waist.

Zayn might laugh if he didn’t feel increasingly suffocated. “Liam, please,” he stammers whilst trying to pull away slightly from a nudging nose.

It’s a deep breath later, Liam obviously working through something in his head only to give in. “I want to work on this relationship, Zayn, so let me take you to Staten Island. Me mum is already a fan, yeah?” He seems more like a puppy than ever, causing trouble and then begging for love at the flick of a switch.

For his part, Zayn is too lost on doe brown eyes to come up with a reason as to _not_ meet the man’s family. He’d been playing this whole time at pushing to do so, but he didn’t think it through if Liam were to yield.

“I, for one, thing that is a wonderful idea,” Harry finally works his way back into the session, posture tall and smile dazzling.

Clenching teeth are hard to hide, and Zayn barely does so with Liam so close. “See, baby? We can even go this weekend if you’ve not got plans.”

Not quite able to wring Harry’s neck at the moment, Zayn turns to Liam with what he’s sure is a pitiful grimace. “Really?”

“Really, really,” Liam concludes, giddy.

Zayn has flashbacks of the damned Shrek poster.

| _Friday_ |

The presentation is thorough, captivating, and sellable, but Liam should really be rehearsing it. Instead he’s pacing back and forth in front of the cardboard poster wondering if he should have chosen something electronic as the medium.

Niall and Andy are kicked back around his desk munching on pizza from a few blocks away, and Liam _really_ should have brought a lunch. Or at least accepted their offer of picking him something up.

“Payno, the poster is the way to go, man. Your presentation is relatively short, so it’s nice to have all the information concise,” Andy vows between bites of his food.

“It’ll be ace, mate,” Niall nods along.

Having been working on presentation techniques all day, Liam just wants a nap. Alas, “I won’t be in the right mindset to run through it this weekend. Should I –“

An abrupt knock and “Hey, Li?” from Liam’s office entrance has him spinning on his heel.

“Hey, babe,” he greets Zayn as soon as the confusion wears off, “What are you doing here?”

The lad shifts on his feet. “I rang you, but you didn’t pick up, so I thought I could just stop by. I don’t mean to interrupt.” It’s almost timid – a vast contrast from the last time Zayn found himself at Winston’s.

A sigh. “I’m sorry, Zayn,” He rubs his thumb and forefinger over his eyes, “I turned my phone off so I wouldn’t get distracted while I’m working. Is something the matter?”

“Well, I just…” Zayn trails off, possibly searching for wording.

Meanwhile, “Could we have a few moments, lads?” Liam directs toward Niall and Andy, neither putting up a fight and rather likely itching to get away.

“Sorry,” Zayn offers once they’re alone, still leaned against Liam’s doorframe.

“No,” Liam shakes his head, walks toward the boy to usher him into the room, “You’re absolutely welcome, little bird. I could actually use a break.” He places a hand on Zayn’s back, shuts his door with the other.

They’re both tired, as is apparent, droopy lids and sluggish movements. Liam takes advantage of it first by drawing out the kiss he silently asks for and second by pulling Zayn onto his lap when he claims his chair.

“I brought food,” is Zayn’s fare, and he promptly leans down to reach into his rucksack.

Two sandwiches are revealed in triangular plastic containers, and Liam could cry from the gorgeous simplicity of it. “You’ve no idea how much I needed this, baby, thank you.”

Zayn smiles back easily, gets comfortable on Liam’s lap.

“How was work?” Liam runs a hand over Zayn’s chinos, swallows a bite of mayonnaise and lettuce.

“Uneventful. I’m not quite able to finish my article yet, so I drafted it and then shuffled papers around whenever someone walked by.”

It’s so cut and dry that Liam can’t help but cough out a laugh. “What are you planning on doing the rest of the day, then?”

“About that,” the younger starts, eyes glued to the last third of his meal, “I know you’ve already lined up your mate to pet-sit, but I was wondering if maybe Yoda could stay with mine instead? Just in case he has an accident.”

“Of course, babe,” Liam has tilted his head leisurely to peer up at Zayn, yearns to run his fingers through inky hair. “That’s a better idea anyway. As long as I get the bad man back,” he tacks on faux-sternly.

Zayn rolls his eyes good-naturedly, presses closer to Liam’s chest and indulges in a grin, “You’re such a nut.”

——

“Liam?” Zayn pauses on his way out of the office, Winston employees arriving back from lunch his considered cue to leave.

They decided on Zayn swinging by Liam’s flat to collect Yoda and then waiting at his own place for Liam to pick him up on the way to Staten Island.

“Yeah?” he’s kind of already presuming a pace.

“I think you’ve got your project in the bag. The visual aid looks good and you’re great with talking to people.” He’s sporting a small smile, voice low and steady.

Liam reflects the expression, the reassurance a pleasant surprise in his chest and on his cheeks. “That really does mean a lot to me, sweetheart.”

A nod, one last kiss.

——

“Couples therapy works?” Andy snorts out ten minutes later when he finds himself gravitated toward Liam’s office, likely reading the much more relaxed atmosphere.

Liam flicks his presentation board. “We’ll see.”

**

“Change of plans; I’m about to be sick.”

“I watched you swallow Dramamine at least thirty minutes ago, baby.”

“Not from motion sickness. It’s those nasty fries.”

“’m pretty sure it prevents all types of queasiness, though.”

Zayn’s been a wreck for the past twenty-four hours. Tired from being kept up with questions on how the hell he got himself into his given situation, his day has sucked, and he hates to admit that the only highlights have been spent with Liam.

“Bad oil is a force to be reckoned with, Liam,” he banters back.

“Anything else before the ship sails?”

“Ha-ha,” Zayn rolls his eyes at his significant other’s play on words, “and yes, thanks for asking: I’m freezing my bullocks off.”

Liam has one arm leaned against his motorcycle, one foot crossed over the other. He’s by the railing, and Zayn has so far yet to risk a peek over. “Five minutes ago it was just your arse,” he gasps, one eyebrow crooked.

“Frostbite works fast,” is Zayn’s response, gloved hands shoved into his peacoat, scarf tugged tight and beanie over his ears.

“8:00pm even,” Liam reads his watch, “Any last words?”

 _It’s unfair how cuddly you look_. “I can’t believe they passed your motorcycle off as a bike.”

The comment quirks Liam’s lips. Resting his games, he extends an arm toward Zayn. “Something tells me this is your first time on the Staten Island Ferry.”

Zayn neither confirms nor denies. The boat begins undocking, and Zayn follows Liam’s lead in dropping pointless chatter. “This makes me nervous, Li.”

The man gives it thought, steps away from his bike to grab Zayn’s hand himself, lets them intertwine. “Come here, baby.”

He steps toward Liam to rest his head on a sturdy shoulder, Liam’s unencumbered arm wrapping around his back. Slowly they walk their way toward the railing, Zayn not actually looking. They stay like that for a few minutes until Zayn finally gives in, shifts slightly to peek at the city’s light on display.

Liam’s palm draws circles over Zayn’s coat. “I promise you that riding the motorcycle all the way there would have felt much colder.”

A peck to the hollow of Liam’s throat seems a dignified enough answer, forehead resting against a scruffy beard.

“Also,” he continues, “Your stomach ache may have more to do with how fast you scarfed your food down rather than bad oil.

They’re back to the banter, evidently. Zayn worms his fingers under Liam’s Adidas hoodie to pinch at warm skin, which isn’t very effective with gloves on, but. “Did I mention that I never learned to swim?”

——

Staten Island isn’t the city, although the traffic on main roads rivals just as well. Zayn’s yet to see a lit-up skyscraper, but trees seem to have doubled. Still, it’s the buzz of being in a new place, so he manages to stay awake to press his head against Liam’s shoulder and watch the scenery become more suburban, residential.

It’s not that his nervousness has eased, really, but rather heightened. Transformed, perhaps. Earlier in the day when Karen had called to gush over plans, Zayn’s butterflies left a jitter in his system. Now, though, it’s like the downward drop on a rollercoaster, thrill more prominent than fright.

He can tell when they’re close to Liam’s family home. Streetlights abundant, flower gardens and basketball goals and SUVs. As apprehension slowly creeps its way back into Zayn’s stomach, the opposite can be said for Liam, and the man shows it off by revving down sleepy streets and winding the bike leisurely as if a snake.

They pull onto a cobbled driveway that lines the left side of a house. Shaped bushes nestled beside the entrance’s staircase, cobbled pathway leading from the street, five large windows framing the front side of the house. It spells out ‘well-off’ but doesn’t beg for attention, is charming.

“Home sweet home,” Liam declares, voice alarmingly loud against the quiet night when there’s no engine to drown it out. He doesn’t move, though, just pats Zayn’s thighs and journeys his eyes over the landscape.

Despite his nerves, Zayn does his part to ease off of the backseat, stretch out his legs and clutch at the straps of his rucksack. “C’mon, Li. They’ve already heard us pull up, and I don’t want them getting any ideas as to why we’re taking so long.”

Liam cracks a laugh, drops out of his trance. As he loops an arm around Zayn’s waist, “I’ll have them know that I can love on my boyfriend whenever I please.”

A fluttering in his stomach. Trying to jump over the rising emotion associated with the label, “You’re such a nuisance, Liam Payne,” Zayn upturns his nose, leans away from the man, “I won’t have you establishing a bad impression for me.”

“What are you fretting over, babe? They’ll adore you,” he crooks a brow, seems genuinely curious.

 _Every aspect of this relationship_. Zayn doesn’t voice his thoughts, looks away from Liam. “Let’s just get this over with.”

At that the older gets off of his Ducati at least, but, “You’ve still got your helmet on, goofy.” He takes it upon himself to de-strap.

Used to the action, Zayn allows Liam to take care of him with only a smidge of embarrassment, stands patiently. “It’s just your parents tonight, yeah?”

“Parents tonight, sisters and co. tomorrow morning,” Liam confirms, thumbs over Zayn’s cheek when it’s uncovered.

“Alright, let’s go,” Zayn turns toward the entrance, one step in front of the other.

“Hold your horses, little bird,” Liam physically grabs the boy’s elbow and steers him back around despite an annoyed huff.

“ _Liam_ ,” the younger stresses, damn near stomps his foot.

“ _Zayn_ ,” he challenges just before gripping a sharp jaw and slotting their lips together, holding them steady as his tongue works to satiate Zayn’s frazzled nerves.

Zayn would be lying if he claimed displeased, cups Liam’s neck and parts his lips accordingly.

“Is that better?” the older hushes once he pulls away, one arm traveling down to grip at Zayn’s hip.

In lieu of verbal response Zayn merely exhales, steals another kiss before nodding.

It’s quiet a bit until Zayn flutters his lashes awake, Liam tilting his jaw further up in consideration. “You don’t know how badly I want to give you a good dicking, babe.”

Widened eyes and dropped jaw, “ _Liam_!” is hissed again, “We’re about to see your family and you’re trying to rile me up.”

“It’s the truth, babe,” Liam dissents any fault, “I just want to be good to you, and it’s what you need right now.”

“You telling me that isn’t helping,” Zayn near groans, makes sure to keep space between them.

“Alright, alright,” Liam throws his hands up, “I apologize.” Finally, he turns to unstrap his duffel from the back of his motorcycle.

Zayn bites his tongue on making fun of the way the duffel looked while hooked to the bike partly because it was an adequate backrest and partly because he doesn’t think they can afford much longer to bicker outside.

The other lad is apparently done talking as well, slips his bag right over his shoulder and begins trekking toward the front door. There’s not a moment’s pause to warn Zayn, and Liam just opens the door to step in.

——

Tucked into the right corner of a plush, tawny sofa, Zayn gladly admits that trudging through his shitty Friday was well worth it. Stone blue, chenille throw pulled to his chin, nameless action film casting cool tones against the area in its proximity, lamps vanquishing shadows with yellow light. He’s cozy with his mug of hot chocolate just in reach, is keeping a lazy watch on Liam’s restless fingers that he only just escaped from, sweet with their caress against bone but then sour when their tickling takes on a mind of its own.

Karen was near tears when she greeted them just after nine, quick to layer kisses to her son’s cheek and hug Zayn amiably before rushing off to warm them up with homemade cocoa. Geoff too was less intimidating than Zayn had worried, kind smile yet sturdy handshake, just like his son.

While his mum readied late-night snacks, Liam escorted Zayn to his old room. After having showered down the hall, the younger suffered through awkwardly calling for Liam back up the stairs, requesting sleepwear that wasn’t even a thought to pack. Liam had only indulged in a few cheeky remarks – just enough to color Zayn’s cheeks rosy – before fitting the lad in flannel pants and a long-sleeve thermal.

Geoff had retired to his bedroom shortly after his film ended, stayed long enough to offer his two cents regarding the baby pictures Karen managed to procure from storage. Zayn gave Liam shit for a solid twenty minutes, the older man reduced to hiding behind a throw pillow yet graciously accepting Zayn’s apologetic smiles.

Now, starburst clock hands edging towards 11:00pm, Zayn is entranced by the aesthetic, candles mantled beneath the decoration. His lashes are still sticking closed, though, chatting drowned out around him.

When his eyes blink back open the candles are blown out and the telly is off. Karen is closing her family album that was left on the coffee table, and Zayn thinks to offer his assistance, but there’s this insistence fluttering against the arch of his foot, and – “You’re in the doghouse tonight if you don’t sod off.”

Immediately Zayn wishes he could have clamped his mouth sooner (or maybe just have Liam sod off, actually) so as not to have used the attitude in Karen’s presence.

But the lady only laughs out, “I think I’d leave that poor boy alone, honey.”

Liam splutters out, “I did nowt, mum,” but it’s a tone laced with a child’s tell of lying.

It’s obvious Zayn’s alert, so he sits up despite his embarrassment. “’m sorry about that, Karen. Let me clean up my mess as well.”

He must not come off too capable with his hair a mess and a yawn breaking up his avowal because Karen waves him off, claims it’s an easy project as she traipses off to the kitchen.

As soon as she’s out of sight, Zayn hardens a glare toward Liam, the latter standing up to stretch before offering his hand for Zayn. Naturally, Zayn stands himself and works to fold up the blanket he used. “Stop instigating, Liam! Do you want your mother to hate me?”

A hand eases itself around Zayn and attaches to his hip as he stands straight, laying the throw over the back of the couch. “She thought it was funny, babe.”

“Get off of me, Handsy!” Zayn hisses, twists out of the older’s hold so that Karen won’t be able to accuse them of exhibitionism.

As if on cue, the woman reenters her den. “Oh, you didn’t have to, darling,” she starts, likely referring to the folded blanket.

“But I did,” he offers a half-smile, shrugs just before she goes in for a hug.

Her son receives the same affection, and they’re wished a good night before Zayn leads his way to the staircase, bones begging for a thorough night’s sleep. Just as Karen’s left, though, Liam’s wrapping his arms around Zayn’s waist from behind and planting kisses to his neck.

“ _Liam_ ,” the lad groans, tries to worm his way out of the embrace, “We’re at your family home.”

The man lets up some, and Zayn thinks to forgive him on the basis that grudges only wear him down, but then Liam’s back at it again up the stairs, slapping at the younger’s bum playfully.

Zayn blindly kicks out behind him, makes contact and elicits an “ _Oof_!” in time to curve on the landing and skitter up the rest of the flight. It’s a bit immature, but Liam started it, so Zayn closes the man’s bedroom door and leans against it in order to get him back.

Liam must’ve expected the counterattack, turns his doorknob slowly before warning out a “ _Zayn_.”

Ill-prepared, the younger lad lasts about three seconds of withstanding the door against Liam’s full weight before he spins a 180, watches breathlessly Liam stumbling forward. Shock in his expression gives way to bright eyes and a challenging smirk, head tilting slowly.

Zayn’s throat is stuck on a snort, mildly terrified for his fate. Just before it looks as if Liam is going to pounce, though, Zayn does so instead, molds palms to the man’s cheeks and flattens their torsos together. “’m sorry, ‘m sorry,” pleads Zayn, pecks kisses over his opponent’s lips.

At worst, Zayn expects tickling, but Liam instead grips his hips tight after a moment, opens his mouth to deepen the kiss as he walks the younger lad up against a red wall just beside a t.v. stand. It’s not too rough, but Zayn nevertheless gasps at Liam’s doggedness, which only abettors a hot tongue slicking over his teeth. And Zayn needs something to ground him, is at risk of floating away with the rush of it all straight to his head, so he tightens his arm over Liam’s shoulder, clasps at his nape, and bites back.

It doesn’t take long for Liam to take advantage of their position, grind against Zayn’s hip.

And Zayn loves it. Loves the thick fingers massaging his lower back and the warmth of Liam’s naked chest and the knowledge that the man is so malleable in his state. But, “We can’t do this,” he breaks away, leans his head against the wall and drags one hand just below Liam’s throat in case he needs held back.

“Christ, Zayn,” the man responds, doesn’t do much to pull back, though, just trails his lips to the crook of Zayn’s neck and slows his hips.

Breathless but demanding, “No, Li, really; it’s late and this is inappropriate.”

The other is listening, at least, whines out and rests his forehead against Zayn’s shoulder, wraps his arms around midsection. “You drive me crazy, little bird,” is a hushed confession.

Gritting his teeth because it’s not as if there’s no chemistry, Zayn twists fingers in Liam’s hair and presses against the older’s hip with his opposite hand. “I know, baby, but we should sleep.” Zayn instantly regrets the pet name. He’s never used it un-ironically is the thing, and now isn’t the time to be forming habits.

One last groan. Liam pulls away, begins folding back the comforter on his bed, flicking on a bedside lamp before mindlessly exiting the room.

“ _Damnit_ ,” Zayn kicks himself, continues using the wall as support before he musters enough wherewithal to climb into bed. A bit too late he remembers at least having packed earbuds and a recent bestseller having to do with a detective in a serial murder investigation, but as he’s too lazy to even reach his arm over the side of the bed he imagines it won’t take long to fall asleep anyway.

Peeling his ears, Zayn can’t help but listen to Liam shut off running water, pad back down the hall. He doesn’t look at Zayn upon entering the room, flicks off the overhead light and on the fan. The boy eyes him still, watches a mechanical drop of joggers just before Liam climbs into bed and leans to switch of the lamp.

A minute passes of darkness and shallow breathing. It’s tense, though. Zayn turns on his side, can barely make out Liam’s figure. “Are you mad?” comes out smaller than anticipated, but Zayn imagines it can only add to the effect.

Liam shifts as well, sheets rustling. “No, baby. You’re right, anyway.”

Unfettered fingers trace themselves over the man’s face, mapping out his cheek and nose and mouth just to have a kiss sponged to their pads. It’s so simplistically intimate, and Zayn could do with scooting closer and falling asleep in Liam’s warmth.

But Zayn turns his back instead, ultimately reaches down to haul his rucksack up and over him to be placed as a barrier between them. “Good. No sex before marriage.”

| _Saturday_ |

The first time Zayn wakes up it’s to blink his eyes open against predawn light, the sun begging to make its presence known. And Liam is pressed against his back, rucksack likely on the floor again.

It’s too hot underneath the comforter, so he stretches his legs out to soak in chilled sheets, takes one arm out from under the covers only to realize that Liam had folded the heavy duvet from his side over Zayn, now has only the black sheet as protection against the raging fan.

Irrationally irritated maybe, but Zayn wants to sleep, and upon shifting his foot against Liam’s leg its revealed that the man’s skin is icy. Grumbling, Zayn sits up and resituates the covers, folds the comforter back a foot so he can slink down the bed and press his chest to Liam’s, forehead to clavicle.

It’s early and he’s shameless, hitching one of Liam’s legs over his own and lazily dropping his lids.

——

The second time Zayn wakes up it’s to lock gaze with a very small boy peeking through the cracked bedroom door. It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the relentless sunrays filtrating through the window behind him, but by the time his conscious is organizing itself the door is closed and the mystery boy has shot off.

Liam is no longer tangled with him – nor in the room – and that shouldn’t bother Zayn as much as it does.

His phone reads 9:37am, which means there’s a couple hours yet until the Payne family is meant to all be here for lunch. He thinks the fact might should ease his anxiousness, but it only fuels his frustration that Liam left him to fend for himself with mere hours to spare before he’s fed to the wolves.

Zayn tries a few deep breathes, briefly considers jumping out the window. He settles on dressing in his jeans from the night prior, slips on a green sweater and Docs because if he stays in pajamas he might just fall back asleep.

The upstairs is clear when Zayn steps into the hallway. A door on down and to the left is open, but there’s no noise coming from it, so Zayn takes it upon himself to creep into the bathroom, skirt his eye over a toiletry bag left on the toilet and a new toothbrush laid out.

Having Liam by his side to inform him of the day’s plans would be much more efficient and less nerve-wracking than tiptoeing around, Zayn decides. He also decides to give Liam hell for disappearing without a trace.

At the top of the landing he can already smell potato and egg. Again there’s no chatter, so Zayn risks a few steps down the flight in order to gain a better view of the main level. The same little boy that Zayn woke up to is sat at the kitchen bar faced away.

“Hello,” Zayn utters as he rounds around the bar and into the heart of the kitchen, eyes the eggs and hash browns in skillets but decides he’ll wait for someone else to dig in first so as not to be caught red-handed.

The child doesn’t even glance up, is too busy trying his damnedest to stay inside the lines of his coloring book.

Imagining crickets going off in the background of eerie silence due to the awkwardness of the situation, Zayn actually wishes _anyone_ were around to clue him in to what in the hell is going on. As it is, he walks forward to the left of a sink, folds his elbow so as to connect eye-level with the boy in front of him. “What’s your name?”

He glances up, stares at Zayn for a moment before commencing his activity. “James.”

“That’s a nice name.” When it becomes apparent a response won’t be offered, Zayn continues. “Do you know Liam?”

“Duh,” James drags out, more than likely rolling his eyes, “he’s my uncle.”

The boy’s articulate when he wants to be, and especially so given that he looks to be four. “Well my name is Zayn, and I’m your Uncle’s friend.”

Not listening, maybe, James huffs down at his drawing and smacks his crayon flat to the counter.

“Do you want me to help you color, babe?” Zayn tries.

Meeting eyes with intent this time, James whimpers, “It won’t stop wiggling, Mr. Zayn.” Tears are threatening to well up, eyes large and lower lip protruding. On second thought, the boy could very well be three.

Sympathetic, and maybe because it has been too long since he’s seen his little cousins, Zayn walks around to James and extends his arms. “Come here.”

Rightfully hesitant, it takes James a moment to allow Zayn to pick him up, but once he’s off the chair Zayn deftly presumes the position, sits the boy on his lap. “Choose a color, buddy, and I’ll help you.”

Upon grabbing the green, James hands it to Zayn.

“Sick, babe. Green’s me favorite color.”

A loud gasp is emitted from the boy as he scrambles to turn sideways on Zayn’s lap, get a better look at him. “That’s my favwite too!”

Zayn can only awe under James’s cuteness, chubby cheeks and big brown eyes, thick, golden locks framing his face and mouth rounded. The speech-impeded _R_ s just completely do Zayn in.

Just before he means to respond, Karen bustles into the kitchen with another baby on her hip. “Oh, Zayn! I didn’t realize you made it up. Let me fix you up some breakfast.”

“Thank you, Karen,” Zayn smiles, a bit shy with her in person.

Luckily she doesn’t take notice (or at least doesn’t mention it), rather sets the baby she has in a highchair and begins taking plates out of a cabinet. “I hope James didn’t wake you, love.”

“No! I didn’t!” the little boy insists, wide-eyed for a different reason this time as he shoots his gaze between Zayn and Karen. “I just looked, I pwomise.”

Karen raises her brow at James’s obvious guilt, only says, “As long as Mr. Zayn isn’t cross.”

“He’s not, gwammy,” James actually begins to rise on his knees in Zayn’s lap, voice pitching, and Zayn has to press his palm against the lad’s stomach to hold him safe. “He’s colo’ing wif me.”

“Alright,” Karen draws out, turns to Zayn, “Do you want turkey bacon, love?”

“That’d be great, actually,” Zayn answers.

As soon as Karen nods and spins around to lay cheerios in front of a fussing baby, James turns back to face Zayn. “You’we not mad, a’e you?” he tries to whisper.

“No, babe,” Zayn hushes back, smooths his hand down the boy’s back. “Are you ready to color?”

James nods furiously with a gasp, light bulb going off in remembrance as he settles into Zayn’s lap fully, back to chest.

They work on Goofy together, Zayn outlining the character’s snout green with James’s hand beneath his. When the boy insists that he can do it, Zayn lets go and though the lines begin wobbling again, they’re actually improved from before Zayn offered assistance. James quickly begins fretting nevertheless, but as soon as Zayn commends him the boy sits up taller and draws as he pleases.

Karen, bless her heart, informs Zayn that Liam woke up earlier and went for a jog, should be getting back soon, that James’s mother is Liam’s oldest sister who’s kipping with her fiancé, that Elliot is the baby and Nicola’s as well, and that Ruth and her husband will be arriving later.

Their rough start forgotten, James refuses to leave Zayn’s lap, eats there and then begs to see all of Zayn’s tattoos – especially the snake on his shoulder. Because Zayn isn’t keen on disrobing in the kitchen he promises to show James later and doodle him up one to color in the meantime.

It’s not too long after James has finished his meal and coerced Zayn into helping with the snake that Liam jogs back through the door, cheeks ruby, hair windswept, joggers low and a hoodie unzipped enough to peep fuzzy chest hair.

Needless to say that it’s not the best time to have a child on his lap, but Zayn powers through by remembering that Liam left him to wake up alone. It’s only easy for the first ten seconds, James _ooh_ ing in his ear and craving attention. Caving, he glances up, listens to Liam’s conversation with Karen.

“Thanks, mum; it looks ace.” Indication of the food.

“Your boy and nephews have already eaten. Go clean up and I’m sure they’ll love some cuddles when you’re done.”

Out of the corner of his eye Zayn watches Liam finish off the last of his water bottle (which, well – _focus_ ) and plant a smooch to Elliot’s forehead before – oh, shit.

“Good morning, you two,” Liam’s stood right beside them, expectant.

“James,” Zayn acts out passive aggressively, mouth right by the boy’s ear as he’s watching him color, “Could you tell your uncle to leave us alone?”

“Hm?” James hums out, twists his torso to look at Zayn but gets distracted by Liam, evidently just only realizing he was there. “Uncle Liam!”

Zayn looks up at that, the little lad’s eyes lit up, Liam’s grin contagious, and it’s a wonder Zayn didn’t notice the heavy resemblance earlier.

“Hey, Tiger,” Liam holds his palm out for a high-five, “you’re doing brilliant there.”

Wiggling about to enthusiastically accept, James shows his manners: “Thanks! Mr. Zayn is helping me.”

Liam’s eyes flicker to Zayn’s before he leans his elbows on the bar. “Well, you’re both doing great. Do you happen to know why Mr. Zayn is cross with me?”

Whipping his head back to Zayn, James is sporting a brow crinkled with confusion, eyes shiny and hands gentle on Zayn’s chest as the boy resituates himself to better face him. “Why a’e you cwoss wif Uncle Liam?”

It’s the tilt of the head and genuinely curious tone that tugs at Zayn’s heart. And of course Liam would use an adorable child against him. Zayn doesn’t know if he should actually have this conversation conveyed through a babe, grazes his eyes around the kitchen to see if there’s any help, but Karen’s run off somewhere.

He tucks his chin, quietens his voice, “Well, this is my first time in this house and my first time meeting your family, so I was scared coming here. Then, I woke up this morning and your uncle was gone, so it made me worried.”

Furrow deepening, James still appears confused, but there’s a heat behind it this time as he turns back to Liam. “Why did you leave him?”

Liam doesn’t return the volley, thumbs gently at Zayn’s chin to look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, little bird,” he appears apologetic enough, rubs his thumb over Zayn’s lower lip when the younger doesn’t pull away, “I wanted to be there when you woke up, but I lost track of time.” He breaks for a sigh, a self-depreciating laugh. “Not that that’s a good excuse. But it won’t happen again.”

Zayn works to soften his gaze, is still irritated, but Liam just looks so pitiful when repentant. “I’ll get over it,” comes out a bit rough, and Zayn clears his throat afterward.

“I’ll make it up to you later, but I really need to shower off before mum comes back. Okay?”

A genuine smile tugs up the corner of Zayn’s mouth. “Okay,” he hushes.

“Alright,” Liam leans forward, and Zayn prepares for a kiss when –

“No _kissing_ , Uncle Liam,” James appears scandalized, one hand against Liam’s chest and the other forearm on Zayn’s clavicle.

A brow raises, the older man verges on genuinely offended. “Why can’t I kiss my boyfriend?”

“You’we not even _mawwied_ ,” the boy huffs and crosses his arms.

Zayn hides a snicker in thinned lips, shrugs at Liam in hopes that the man knows James wasn’t put up to this.

Dark brown eyes glint mischievously, actions calculated, though. “Well what if I told you I’m marrying him?” Liam challenges.

It’s a joke, of course, but it makes Zayn slightly uncomfortable, reminds him of the article. And he so badly wishes he never got the assignment, never wrung himself a fool in front of this man.

“No, _I’m_ mawwying him,” James brandishes a blue crayon, is apparently already bored with the conversation as he’s begging to go back to coloring.

Leaning once again on the counter, Liam entertains the notion. “Oh, how’s that?”

“Mummy alweady said I could,” James answers simply, is back to filling in his python.

“Did she now?”

“Mhm,” James lies so easily before popping his head back up and scrambling to face Zayn again, the latter having a near fright in balancing the boy before he topples over. “He’s got a snake on his awm and that’s my _favwite_ ,” he paws over Zayn’s right shoulder.

“Well he’s got a wolf on his leg, and that’s _my_ favorite, so does that mean I can marry him too?”

Again, butterflies awaken in Zayn’s stomach, but he forces them dead in order to fix his eyes on James.

The boy gives a considering look, raises a brow. “I guess so.”

“ _Whew_ ,” Liam dramatizes, wipes his forehead, “Thank goodness. I’m allowed to kiss him now, right?”

An exasperated sigh. “Only a little bit,” the boy stresses, tilts his head down to shoot his uncle a firm eye.

Under the scrutiny it’s an effort not to erupt into giggles, but Zayn manages to pucker his lips as far out as they’ll go, allows Liam to grip his jaw once more and feather brush their lips together for _one_ , _two_ –

“O _kay_ ,” James is pushing at Liam’s chest again, “it’s my tuwn now.”

Zayn knows his eyes are crinkled in his beam, hardly prepares himself in time for James to grab his cheeks and plant a wet kiss over his mouth.

“Hey, hey,” Liam grabs at his nephew’s chin to peck his forehead, “be careful with our husband.” One more wink for Zayn and then he’s off to clean up.

James promptly goes back to the snake, persistence admirable, and Zayn glances up to meet gaze with a softly grinning Karen. He’s left to wonder when she came back in.

——

It’s a bit past 2:00pm, and Zayn is stuffed full with his burger from earlier, looser from a bottle of Heineken that was passed out of Nicola’s cooler as soon as Karen and Geoff left to take Brit, Ruth’s dog, on a walk. James only agreed to leave Zayn behind under the prospect of treating himself at the Dollar Store, and Liam’s been all over Zayn since, finally able to freely show affection without a four-year-old breathing down his neck and wielding a pitchfork.

A grounding hand at Zayn’s waist stayed put while he was introduced to older sisters, plush lips fluttered along his temple, ear, cheek every time someone felt the need to tease him about his newly-acquired three-foot shadow, warm chest to his shoulder blades when they stood around the dining area for a hot minute after having cleared their plates, an unassumingly possessive palm cupping Zayn’s thigh when everyone still at the house decided to relocate to the backyard, sun glowing on and breeze somehow steadying. With the way they’ve gravitated toward each other, Zayn couldn’t claim not to be _Liam’s_ even if he came out and confessed his sins.

Up until now, that is. Now Liam, Nick and Nicola, Thomas and Ruth, and Zayn are sat around a porch table on the back deck, halfway through a game of Bullshit. Ruth isn’t doing too hot, blames it on her ‘Week 29 Pregnancy Brain.’ Thomas and Nic are well-off enough despite a setback for Nic two turns ago. Really, the game will come down to either Liam or Zayn as the winner.

Though humble at times, Liam Payne isn’t afraid to flex his skills at a blasted game of Bullshit. (Not that Zayn should be surprised; he does host poker nights, after all.) And Zayn thought dubiously of Liam’s supposed infamous record with the game even given the chalkboard hung outside proclaiming the man’s lead with 26 games. It’s apparent now that Liam actually knows what he’s doing and has been declared Champ for a reason.

And Zayn didn’t set out with intentions of cheating his way equal to Liam’s skill, but, well. The man was a bit cocky in the very beginning – more so than Zayn’s ever seen him. It started with Liam calling Zayn’s bluff so easily and claiming “It’s all about reading people” when Zayn’s dropped jaw read as perplexed. Afterward Liam kept throwing jokes out like ‘ _Don’t feel bad for tapping out, baby_ ” and ‘ _You’re still a winner in my eyes_ ,’ but as Zayn proved to hold his own the remarks became quite a bit more challenging, taunting. Now, though, Liam’s mostly silent, concentrated.

It’s hilarious, Zayn thinks. To be fair, he _did_ get himself far enough in the game for Liam to take him seriously; it was only shortly after that everyone else began signaling Zayn what cards they had. Liam needs to be taken down a notch, and Zayn is more than happy to perform the honors.

“Two aces,” Liam states, lays his cards down and continues to study the rest of his hand.

Probability-wise it’s unlikely. Zayn has one ace in his own hand and distinctly recalls bullshitting earlier, laying one down that hasn’t gotten picked out of the pile yet. Still, Zayn glances over his cards to everyone else.

Ruth – just to his left – stares back, raises a brow in question.

Zayn takes it for what it’s worth. “One two.”

Ruth goes and then Thomas (who gets caught lying and has to pick up the deck). Nicola has no fives, and Zayn knows it because she didn’t signal that she did a few rounds ago. It’s maybe dirty to call her on it, but he says “bullshit” with such conviction that she retorts an “Oi, fuck off!” and they all get a laugh out of it.

Well, Liam just quirks up a corner of his mouth. “A six,” he declares.

There’s not much to go off of given that Zayn doesn’t have any sixes, but he sees Ruth tap her chin once, Thomas tug his ear twice, and Nic rub her nose. That’s all four.

With no cards in the pile it won’t matter much if Zayn calls Bullshit on Liam or not. But it’s the principle of it all: Zayn has to be seen as ruthless, cunning, intuitive, and missing out on opportunity to do so won’t advance his case. Plus, he gets a kick out of witnessing such an incredulous Liam when the bloke it set straight.

It’s been a few beats too long. Liam glances up to Zayn, leaned back in his wicker chair as if trying too hard to affect casualness.

Zayn – because he’s one for dramatics when he can get away with it – stares Liam down in a smolder. “Bullshit.”

“We’re home!” Geoff’s voice rings from inside the house, audible as the deck’s sliding glass door is left open.

Everyone at least jerks their attention toward the noise, Nick replying that they’re outside.

But Liam’s scrutiny burns Zayn’s skin, silent and still. Once all players are again focused, Liam flips his card over to reveal a nine. Calmly, a bit chillingly, the man interrogates, “The whole deck is in hand, so how could you possibly know that I don’t have any sixes?”

Zayn credits Liam for being suspicious. Good on him. It won’t serve Zayn well, though, so he licks his lips, tilts one side of his mouth up in hopes that Liam will think he’s deflecting using humor. He leans close, raises his voice just about a whisper. “You see, Mr. Payne, it’s all about reading people.”

There’s a bit of a commotion from inside, but Zayn doesn’t back down from Liam’s imploring gaze. He almost feels as if the man is searching his soul, irises so expressive yet unreadable.

“Mr. Zayn!” preludes pounding footsteps, James jumping in between Zayn and Liam with a pumping chest and sparkling eyes. “Look!”

Zayn hadn’t realized how close he and Liam had leaned toward each other, but James’s theatrics likely mean that the boy _did_ take note, and Zayn has to laugh at the lad’s devotion to halting his and Liam’s relationship. “What’ve you got now?” Zayn lifts up the bouncing child to share the chair.

“Gwammy said we can colo’ ou’ haiw _gween_!” is a bit of a squeal, toothy beam and reaching hands that find themselves tugging in Zayn’s hair.

A brow spiking automatically in bewilderment, Zayn laughs into, “Yeah, babe? Sounds sick.”

Nicola, though, is quick to interject in her authoritative tone, “Excuse me, mister, but what are you going on about, and where are my kisses?”

Taken aback maybe, possibly too excited to have observed in his surroundings properly, James whips his head around to his mother, is a lot less afire, “Can we colo’ ou’ haiw, please? I love you.”

As if on cue, Karen comes outside as well, bitten lip. “Oh, dear. You haven’t gotten me in trouble, have you, James?”

The boy seems to curl inward on himself, shielding blows after being shot down twice in a row. And Zayn hugs him tighter in hopes that it’s a comfort. “But you said–“

“What’s this about hair color?” Nicola questions her mother, not meanly but rather suspiciously.

“Oh! It’s this washable hair spray your boy was begging for,” she chuckles, wipes her hands on her jeans and pulls out a chair from the corner of the deck to sit in, “Yes, should come out in the rinse.”

“I don’t know…” Nicola trails off, rightfully skeptical of such vagueness.

“Babe,” Nick assuages, wrist flicking up from where it’s laid on the back of his fiancée’s chair.

James may be likely to burst into tears at any given second, and, clinically, Zayn spectacles at the emotional spectrum of such small children – its simplicity in its predictability and complex in its heightening with the tiniest blip. Personably, Zayn doesn’t think he’ll much like to see the babe’s wobbling lip and red cheeks and broken heart, so he rubs his hand around James’s back and speaks up: “I think I’ve seen the stuff, Nic. Non-toxic and all that. I could at least try it out.”

The little lad wraps his arms around Zayn’s neck, tucks into his neck to peek at his mother, and Zayn wonders if the boy realizes he’s using his cuteness to get his way or merely clinging to Zayn for succor. “Please, mummy,” is a watery plea.

Slanted eyes, a moment’s consideration. “I’ll _think_ about it, love. But you better be on your best behavior,” Nic acquiesces.

“Yes, ma’am,” James replies, timid in his hushed volume and want for close connection.

Geoff makes his way outside as well, a whimpering Elliot being handed off to his dad. “He’s trying for his afternoon nap early, I suppose.”

“Let’s see if we can hold it off a bit still,” Nick replies, reaches for the tot who appears soothed with a pacifier in his mouth and his father’s touch.

“Oh, look at those baby blues,” Zayn utters admirance, a bit entranced by their vibrancy against dewy tears and dark hair.

“Hey, um,” James leans back to meet Zayn’s gaze, “what colo’ awe my eyes?” He widens them a bit.

Not yet a tiger as Liam had claimed earlier, James is just a cub in need of reassurance. And Zayn recounts Karen’s pitched giggle from the night prior when she paraded a photo of young Liam in a lion costume – her _little lion_. It only brings to mind more wonders surrounding the man he’s with, and at the forefront is whether Liam’s the same as his oldest nephew, seemingly titanium but so malleable in reality.

It’s a winding road to go down, so Zayn tries to clear his head, chuck James’s chin lightly. “You’ve got brown eyes, babe, and they’re gorgeous.” A peck to the forehead because it’s what he can offer.

Zayn’s attention is piqued by an ankle hooking his own, Liam’s gentle gaze on his interaction with James. The two share a few seconds, neither trying to communicate anything dire, maybe just ‘ _I’m here_ ’ and ‘ _You’re something I could spend the rest of my life learning_.’

But maybe Zayn’s stretching it.

“Ma, Pops?” The older man calls his parents, “We’re just finishing up a round of BS. Care to stay, then?”

“Oh, Liam,” his mum tantalizes, “I don’t know if I much care too see you outplay these poor people.”

“Actually,” Ruth sits up with a smirk, heavily involved as she is, “Zayn’s giving our boy a run for his money.”

“Oh is he?” Karen bubbles out a laugh just as Geoff snickers, “Now this I’ve got to see,” settles in his own porch chair.

“Oi! What’s everyone got to gang up on me for?” Liam looks around, one brow raised in mock-rage.

Despite the joking overtone, Zayn finds himself wanting to nuzzles the man’s scruffy cheek, reassure him that they’re not out to get him. Except they kind of are. Zayn nudges his foot in lieu.

“Enough of that, little bro,” Nicola declares, “Now who’s turn is it? Ruthie?”

“Nah, it’s still mine yet,” Zayn speaks up, splays his fingers on James’s back while he redistributes their body weight. “Where were we?”

“Sevens,” Liam supplies with a renewed spirit, is no longer in his funk from just the round before.

Zayn pinwheels his cards from where they’d been laid face-down on the table, is lucky enough to have a seven, briefly entertains the thought of passing it off as two cards. He can feel Liam watching him, though, so he plays it safe. “You wanna help me?” he asks the wiggle worm in his lap.

James’s mood perks up significantly when he’s allowed to eye the cards and pick out the seven of hearts, gasp audible when he finds it but lip ensnared in his teeth afterward as if he’ll be able to play his competitors.

“Well, what’ve you got to say to that?” Geoff prompts gruffly from the sidelines.

It’s charming the way everyone around the table automatically puts on their figurative thinking caps, scrunching noses and tilted heads. Nick even mimes stroking a beard, which has James giggling into Zayn’s shoulder so as not to blow his own version of a poker face.

Again, Zayn wonders if Liam, being the baby, had his family wrapped around his pudgy little finger at the age of four, wonders if Liam had as much zest or if he was more subdued.

The man certainly is audacious now, at least, and it’s shown when his side-eyes are legitimately leery of James and Zayn. As if Zayn has trained the young boy to react so obviously in order to purposely throw Liam off their case. (Which he would definitely do if they had more time and he thought James was capable of being anything but genuine.)

“Can I help you, sugar pie?” Zayn grins condescendingly polite at Liam, a slight quirk to his brow so that Liam knows he’s mostly ribbing.

Liam is still unsure as he shakes his head, but there’s a half-smile. “You don’t fight fair.”

Unsafe is what one would label it the fact that all else goes to hell half the time Zayn’s eyes connect with Liam’s. Something always teases itself in the depths of swirling cinnamon that Zayn desires to find, capture, hold. And Zayn is able to admit in the moment, so blithe, that Liam is something he knows he won’t be able to quit easily.

As it is, Zayn has decided to allow himself enjoyment on their trip, so he leans to his right and draws the man with batting lashes so as not to let their audience in on the conversation. Lips concealed from view as they skim Liam’s cheekbone, Zayn utters, “You know you like when I play dirty.”

A nearly imperceptible hiss sounds right beside Zayn’s ear, and then Liam’s cheek brushes his as if to pull them face-to-face once more.

“You can’t kiss him, Uncle Liam, because he’s on _my_ team,” James frets, is nearly hostile in the abrupt tugging on Zayn’s shirt just to separate the two.

“James!” Nick barks from the opposite end of the table, eyes locked on the little boy and brows heavy, no amusement. “You’re _not_ to be rough.”

Guilt eats away at Zayn’s stomach, is climbing its way throughout his chest because it’s his own fault for upsetting the boy when he was already in a fragile state.

Misted eyes are wide, mouth in a grimace but lower lip stuck out as if the boy is straddling the line between indignant and woeful. “But they’we not playing wight!” is a shaky whine.

“There are no excuses for being mean, son, and you know that.” Unwavering, stern gaze, but the tone is a bit softer.

Mechanical, James turns to Liam and mutters, “I’m sowwy you awen’t playing wight,” doesn’t look him in the eye. He turns slightly to Zayn, loosens his fist of hunter green cotton, “and I’m sowwy I pulled you.”

It’s petulant and very likely deserves a spanking, but Liam is gentle in his response. “I forgive you, buddy. I’m sorry that I hurt your feelings. It wasn’t on purpose, and we’ll try not to do it again.” A bulky knuckle wipes over James’s cheek to stop any tears before they fall.

“Okay, can we play again?” James looks to his father, suddenly much chipper even with contrite, drooping eyes.

Again, Zayn can’t help but question if the child is purposely manipulating his persona in order to obtain desired results. Either way it’s working, though, because after Nick throws one last look to communicate ‘ _We’ll discuss this again_ ’ and Ruth claims an eight, Zayn delivers his apologies to James’s plump cheek in drawn kisses and a tight hold.

By the time it’s back around to Liam, Zayn can’t even say what number they’re meant to be on, has been too wrapped up in his own frustrations. Namely the fact that his presence has caused James to get carried away and thereby more easily scolded on more than one occasion.

“’ve got a King,” Liam announces and places a card face-down on the pile accordingly.

Nicola scratches her nose, Nick taps his forefinger against the edge of the table, and Thomas tugs on his ear.

Zayn doesn’t have one, but at this point he’s a bit irritated at continuing the game. Fruitlessly, Zayn turns his attention to Liam’s face in hopes of getting a read on the man’s thoughts.

Liam is already jerking his eyes around the table, though, brow scrunched.

And James, perceptible when he chooses to be, has created a rhythm of scratching his nose, beating the table, and tugging on his ears like a monkey, wiggles in his seat as well since he seems to be bored of the game.

It’s a bit anticlimactic for Zayn when Liam discovers the truth. Everyone else erupts into howls of laughter, Nicola clutching her stomach in laughter – a direct contrast to Karen, who appears vaguely disapproving even though her crinkled eyes tell a different story.

There’s no heat behind Liam’s appalled expression when it falls on Zayn, jaw dropped as he tosses his cards on the table. It’s a simple, “I cannot believe you all almost pulled that over on me,” that’s leeway for a huff of laughter, head shaking as if to clear up the reality, “and I call bullshit!”

It’s a bit as if Zayn’s watching the action unfold from behind a glass door, Ruth’s “lowest Bullshit score in years!” muted as is the hilarity of the situation.

Already down on himself at having caused James trouble, Zayn isn’t able to revel in his practically successful scheme. Between the bothered child on his knee and the good-natured laughter from Liam himself, Zayn wonders how the man would react if he were to find out about the article.

——

Zayn hides himself away in the bathroom as soon as he can get back inside after the game. The water that he splashes on his face does little to freshen his mood, but it’s an attempt, and he’ll tip himself a point for trying.

On the way back downstairs Ruth and Nicola are huddled by the door with purses over their shoulders, and their query about Zayn joining them for mini golf is cheerful enough to have him considering it, but then Liam rounds the corner with an “Oi, are you going to cheat at that as well, then?”

It’s joking and quite harmless, but Zayn’s stomach knots anyway. Another set-back in Liam’s life that Zayn caused. Another story that won’t be much funnier in hindsight.

Geoff propositions Liam to help with a project in the garage shortly after Nick, Nicola, Thomas, and Ruth leave for their afternoon golf session and then shopping, so Zayn makes himself at home on the den floor, watches Monsters Inc. with the little ones while Karen reads in her armchair, presence a balm to Zayn’s frazzled nerves.

The hushed, awkward, five minute conversation Geoff holds privately with Zayn in the kitchen is something Zayn tries not to dwell on. Not because Geoff’s version of ‘ _If You Hurt Him…_ ’ is demeaning. Rather because it’s endearing, and Zayn knows the only outcome of his and Liam’s situation will be just as Geoff warns him against.

If Zayn was at all considering coming clean to Liam there’s no chance now. Liam deserves the best, truly, and Zayn’s belief that it would hurt Liam more to learn the truth than to go on thinking he escaped from someone a bit too wacky is reinforced.

Afterward, Zayn flashes a tight smile toward Karen and plops himself back on the pale yellow blanket that stands as the babies’ designated play area. James crawls into Zayn’s lap to cuddle as the movie continues with Boo being stuck in the monster world, and Elliot’s burst of giggles every time Zayn pokes his belly is a rather a nice stress reliever.

While Elliot falls into a late nap as the movie ends, James only behaves more rambunctiously, goes on and on about Monsters Inc. and begs to watch Monsters University. Zayn thinks to suggest watching Tarzan, but the movie would only remind him of Harry, which would have him reeling over when he last saw his best friend – during couples’ therapy.

Instead, Zayn texts Nicola about testing out the temporary hair color on his self for James to see and then takes them outside to do so. The process is simple enough: shake the can, spray in desired location. And James is thrilled beyond belief, veneration in honeyed eyes as he begs to be held just so he can twist his fingers in Zayn’s emerald green locks.

Back inside, Liam, Geoff, and Karen have congregated in the kitchen, and they wave him over. They all have a go at complimenting his hair, and even though it’s more for James’s sake, Zayn can’t help but soften under the amicable atmosphere.

Liam seems to have fallen victim to the ambiance as well, lets his eyes linger on Zayn even as his mum asks his opinion on what to do for dinner. Or maybe he has been paying attention after all, irises a rich hickory framed by thick, lazy lashes. “You can call in whatever you please, mummy. I’d like to take my boyfriend out tonight.”

——

The sun is playing peek-a-boo behind clouds, low to the east. What was once a pure, sky blue background now favors a hazy silver, but Zayn thinks that marigold might make its appearance soon enough. Begging on drizzly and chill, one of Zayn’s better options is huddling under Liam’s arm while they stroll their way back to the end of the boardwalk, pizza in their hands (that Zayn had to put up a fight to provide for) and eyes for aesthetic appreciating the boardwalk’s shops.

They’ve not made too much conversation since leaving Liam’s parent’s house at 5:30pm nor touched as much as they’re prone to do, Liam’s arm around his shoulder the most contact shared all evening. It’s by Zayn’s own design more than likely, Liam so adept in reading the younger’s desires. Because what Zayn has badly needed is time for his self to rejuvenate in mind, body, spirit as he’s not gotten any alone time since meeting Liam, really. And as if the man hasn’t proven perfect a dozen fold, he matches and complements Zayn’s demeanors so well, which has made it so easy to rest in the simple, comfortable quietude between them.

The further toward Liam’s parked motorcycle they get the sparser the crowd. With a lack of buildings and body heat, Zayn feels rather attacked by the ocean’s breeze, and he’s quite regretting ever changing into a thin t-shirt from his thick sweater.

“How’s your weekend been so far?” Liam prompts while they’re still a few minutes from the bike, murmurs as he veers them toward a trash bin that they can throw their nondescript paper plates in.

It’s a gentle coax, and Zayn knows he can pull away from it if he wishes, but. Once his trash is dealt with his fingers encircle Liam’s wrist that dangles by his pec. “Quite chuffed. Although I feel as though I should apologize for our card game.” It’s nearly mumbled, and Zayn thinks he barely covered the undertone of supplication.

Liam’s cool fingers idly tease against Zayn’s after his wrist slips from their hold. “A bit funny, actually. Can’t believe you lot nearly got away with that scheme.” An easy timbre, a beat. “Although I must say I’m pleased with myself for catching on when I was so outnumbered.”

A huffed out groan from Zayn isn’t practiced, but he’s not ashamed of it either. Liam’s forgiveness is unspoken, and it takes most of the weight from Zayn’s shoulders. “If I’d have known your head would only grow bigger in the aftermath then I wouldn’t have done it, Mr. Payne.” He hip-checks the man but interlocks their fingers to make sure he doesn’t go far. “And you only realized what was going on when your four-year-old nephew accidentally sold us out. The more people in on it only enhanced the probability of you noticing our signs, besides.”

Not 50 meters from the bike, seagulls capturing Zayn’s eye as they soar overhead, stark white against heavying, pewter clouds.

“You think I’ve got a big head?” is what Liam picks out of the blurb, tone not offended more than intrigued.

Zayn hums in working to phrase. “No. You’re aware of your strengths and bounce between humble and assured, which is incredibly sexy, mind you,” he asides playfully so as to tone down his regard, nudges fuller to Liam’s right side. “But you were downright cocky during Bullshit as to where it was maddening, so I decided to bring you back down to earth.”

The man doesn’t respond right away, and Zayn worries for a second that Liam’s ruminating on the negative portion of his commentary. Soon after, though, “Let’s have you a go on Antonio.”

——

Zayn doesn’t know how he managed going his whole life without a motorcycle. It’s the closest thing to _freedom_ he fancies he’s ever felt, but he’s still in control, which is the most liberating, exhilarating part.

Liam had been a patient teacher as he made sure Zayn knew the clutch, helped adjust the mirrors and practice the turn signal. And he’d remained professional even once Zayn had grown _im_ patient, staving off his instructor’s motorcycle anatomy quiz to moan out a _Mr. Payne_ every time the man’s ear ventured close enough.

Now, slowing from busy roads into residential areas, Zayn is still just as pleased with his experience on the bike, local stores and neighborhood parks much more welcoming than the darkness of a subway and more intimate than if he were to share the view with a horde of strangers on a city bus.

Really, the scenery makes him long for _home_ , though. For Bradford and his family – as vast and suffocating as they both may seem at times. Bradford and Staten Island are alike in that they both have a bad rep as compared to their surrounding locations, and once Zayn’s fallen into that line of thinking he can’t stop comparing the two places, imagining himself on Liam’s motorcycle in his own neighborhood, greeting his demanding aunties and overly enthusiastic cousins.

It’s sprinkling now on top of the harsh winds, and Zayn is regretting further by the minute not taking up Liam’s offer of buying him a souvenir jacket from one of the boardwalk shops, thinks he could deal with the tackiness of it now if it meant providing warmth. Instead he burrows further into Liam’s firm chest, relishes the warm palms atop his thighs as the man provides directions back to the house.

(And maybe it’s not just about body heat. In this moment, to himself, as vulnerable as Zayn has made himself in his own head, he admits that there’s something about having a familiar body to curl into. And even more to knowing the soul within the body.)

——

Naturally, Karen makes a fuss over them when they arrive home. She’s laid thick towels on the foyer floor for them to step onto and identical ones on a decorative table for them to wrap up in after tossing their soaked clothes into a trash bag.

They hadn’t expected a downpour, but she had, apparently.

Zayn’s too worried about his teeth chattering out of his mouth to play at provocative or even fall into shy while he strips nude beside the man he’s been seeing for not two weeks.

And Liam – _bless him_ – stands for a bit with his willy out to rub over Zayn’s arm with the towel rather than warm himself up. “Shower, then?”

The younger nods in reply, directs his gaze elsewhere from Liam’s bum as the man capes himself in his own towel.

Once up and ushered into the bathroom, Zayn seats himself on the commode, state of mind still nostalgic and chest aching heavier the longer he envisions how the night would be going with his parents and sisters. Their worn, bricked home would surely be a lot quieter in the absence of its midday commuters – aunties and uncles and non-blood relatives alike – but only just so. The girls have never been soft-spoken (to say the least) besides perhaps Waliyha, so dinner would consist of enough chatter. Bickering too between the youngest two, but he’s heard that they’ve grown closer as they’ve aged up, so maybe it would be more considered banter.

“Zayn?” cuts through the air, the younger only realizing Liam had been keeping up a steady stream of blabbering in the silent wake after his question.

“Hm?” He hums, lids blinking lingeringly as he tilts his head to meet the man’s gaze.

Liam’s expression morphs softly from curious to concerned, and Zayn thinks that maybe Liam’s eyes – warm caramel, pine green in reflected light – expose his soul more explicitly than the older would prefer. “You alright?”

Zayn studies his gaze on the fold of his fingers. Groomed, slender, olive. He doesn’t think it’s safe to let known something so close to his heart even if it’s for Liam, someone who would sympathize since his extended family resides in England as well. Still, words are bubbling up in his throat. He shakes his head to keep them down.

Measured movement has Liam squatting in front of Zayn, brown terrycloth now around his waist. Murmured, “Talk to me, little bird,” inflection edging on worried as fingers – rough, thick, tanned – curl under Zayn’s jaw.

It’s vaguely amusing witnessing Liam kneel in his de facto skirt, slit showing off a whole of one leg from tender, pale inner thigh to – well – _cute_ foot. Zayn opts to rest a palm just above bare knee, craves the strength and steadiness that runs bone deep. Heart pulsing, “I miss home,” verges a whisper.

Liam inches closer and settles his right hand on Zayn’s thigh. Opposite fingers tickle their way across a tucked jaw, cup the younger’s neck. “Do you want to talk about it?”

At other times Zayn might find Liam’s genteel bolstering, but in his current disarray the solace of Liam’s being wrenches at Zayn’s heart further, because he has to question how it’s possible to remain aloof when such a man is begging to crack him open even despite the mess that’s already been seen.

A moment passes as Zayn fails to abate his inner turmoil, and his watery laugh is late enough in timing to be considered odd, but utterance nevertheless floods off of Zayn’s tongue as a storm breaking from angry clouds: “There’s not much to say, but,” he pauses, thinks he won’t be making much sense. And, _shit_ , tears are stinging at the corner of his eyes. “I didn’t want to move here. Studied in London, which was too far at first anyway. There were job openings around for me to write, but then me mate skived off to New York, and me sister made a joke of searching up internships in the Big City. Mum and Dad caught on, and then me whole family was excited about the prospect of it that I couldn’t just let them down.”

When his mouth finally closes Zayn can’t help feeling a bit of a fool, smudges the back of his hand across his eyes more to hide than wipe actual tears. The words register as too ungrateful, though, so he tries to amend. “And it’s nice here, of course; it’s been an amazing experience, and I’ve made ace friends, but.”

Hand on Zayn’s neck rubbing, “From what I’ve gathered it sounds like they love you to bits, only want the best for you,” Liam soothes. “It’s only expected to miss them.”

Zayn nods. He realizes this, knows it intimately. “‘M sorry, Liam,” he tries to sober up, huffs a depreciating laugh, “‘m not normally this worked up, but I’ve’nt seen them in a year – couldn’t even spend hols with them – and being here just makes me think of going back.”

“No, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Liam expresses, tone almost that of a worried puppy, but Zayn doesn’t want to check features. “If I’d have known coming here would hurt you, then –”

“No,” Zayn is adamant, finally leans into Liam’s palm and reaches his free hand to the man’s cheek. As expected, Liam’s brows droop along with his mouth, and Zayn soften his tone in accordance. “It’s wonderful here. It’s beautiful, and your family is lovely, and, just – the whole vibe from this place.” He’s stumbling, can’t explain himself. “I love it here, Li. And you’re so good to me.”

There aren’t words that Liam tries to continue with, and Zayn’s glad that they’re even-matched in that department at least. Instead, with hazel eyes still wide and imploring, Liam chooses to tilt his face upward, draw out an exhale and nudge the slightest of kisses over Zayn’s lips.

Given that Zayn is a professional journalist it’s maybe a bit disconcerting how often he’s at a loss for words when around Liam. But, then again, what they lack in intelligible phrases they make up for with pressing fingers and heavy gazes. And it’s a language Zayn’s willing to grow. So he doesn’t fret over his breath hitching into Liam’s mouth, closes his eyes and molds their lips together for the heat, the intensity he currently craves.

After a beat, Zayn’s dimly aware of his towel slipping gradually past his shoulders, doesn’t think it an issue with Liam’s tongue rousing and stroking against his own until the cover-up is drooped over the back of the toilet and Liam’s teasing fingers freeze over naked thigh before the older jerks away completely.

“Uh,” Liam stutters out, brow high and bottom lip cherried between his teeth.

Hazy as he is, Zayn’s immediate reaction to the reduction of warm skin is a needy whine of confusion, but then he falls upon the fact that Article Zayn has been insisting on abstinence. The realization is equivalent to if he had been spending the day snug in bed, summoned from the depths of his favorite book only by remembering a looming deadline. Partially because of his aggravation, Zayn postpones thoroughly mauling his options of progression over, and his rationale is thrown back seat so greedy fingers can grab at Liam’s shoulder. “Please, Li. It’s okay.”

“Zayn…” the man trails off, skeptical.

The younger’s emotional state is paradoxical, annoyed at Liam’s wariness yet endeared that the man is so carefully thoughtful. It makes Zayn’s heart thud heavily, and, well. Lying to himself further is pointless – even detrimental to his health. So Zayn practices over in his head the truth that he likes Liam.

It’s such a simple thought, really, in theory, but it’s grossly painful to admit in actuality, and Zayn knows it’s because he’s spent his time viciously caging away the notion. But as ‘ _the truth will set you free_ ’ and all that bullshit goes, the longer Zayn lets it rest in the open the less scary it becomes.

Scratch that: the truth is still frightening. But the quirk in his nerves is less paranoid and more nervous, and he’s willing to bet that between the two of them Liam would be much more considerate of Zayn’s heart than he has been himself up to this point.

Butterflies, butterflies, butterflies. There’s a laugh in Zayn’s belly that is bubbling its way up, giddiness in a pressing grin. “It’s alright,” Zayn assures in a timid voice. He palms over Liam’s chest until he’s ready to combat his nerves to look the other in the eye. “I want you.”

Searching gaze, bated breath. Absurdly, Zayn’s psyche chooses the pause to send his stomach plummeting. But he must read as stable and genuine because a kiss is planted on his forehead, Liam claiming that he’ll be right back before exiting the bathroom.

While on a roll, Zayn plays with another idea that he’s suppressed long enough, pride and fear and even the love of a challenge having all the time been in the way. And he decides indefinitely that he won’t be completing the article.

The words repeat over in his head, and a tightness in his chest he’s grown so accustomed to loosens. Again he says it, and. It’s _so_ delivering.

Liam’s back before Zayn can try vocalization, but it doesn’t matter, because landing his eyes on Liam and considering the notion of being able to give back to the man – free of entanglements – puts more toward solidifying the decision than even a raggedy signature would.

The younger rises without prompt, whines out a “ _Li_ ” before he wraps his arms around the man’s neck, slots their lips together once more because he _can_ , can allow himself to bask in the unspoken promises that tease themselves when Liam palms his back closer and sucks at his tongue.

A nip to Zayn’s lip preludes Liam pulling away, though. “What’s got you so excited, little bird?” a smirk twists Liam’s spit-slick lips, but any smugness falls flat in that his tone is gentle, wondering.

There’s a stirring in Zayn’s groin already, and his hips stutter forward to test the yield of Liam’s towel, one hand skittering down pecs to loosen its tie. “Mm, you,” comes out playful, but an underlying urgency is present.

“Yeah?” the older indulges, fingertips trailing Zayn’s spine as he noses closer, bites at the pillow of Zayn’s lower lip. Response isn’t allotted, though, as Liam snakes his tongue over any soreness, sucks lightly with palms venturing downward, reclaiming the territory that he familiarized himself with when they first became intimate. One last lazy kiss, foreheads close. “Let me take care of you.”

The butterflies have simmered down at the coaxing of Liam’s easy demeanor, soft touch, and Zayn allows himself to dip his toes into a feeling that will likely never lack in the terror it drags with it. He sinks into the hold on his waist, grazes his knuckles along scruffy cheek, drops his lashes as he soaks in Liam’s thumping heartbeat. “Alright.”

The older’s next exhale is staggered, light amusement coloring his demeanor. There’s no reply as Liam walks them backward toward the shower, though, just tapping fingers and cheeks nudging together. High-pressure pelts Zayn’s back a few moments in solitude while Liam grabs at something on the counter, opens a cabinet to pull out more towels.

Although Liam is casual about it upon stepping onto the penny tile floor of the shower, there aren’t many ways a bottle of lube can remain inconspicuous.

“I don't know how to feel about you being so prepared,” Zayn snakes his arms over Liam’s shoulders to pull him under the spray of water. “Bold or simply careful?”

A faint blush colors Liam’s cheeks, Zayn dismissing acquiescence of the hot water being at fault when Liam ducks his chin. “Hopeful, mostly.”

Zayn chooses not to tease Liam further, reaches for his blue loofa and Liam’s citrus body wash. And the time passes like that, both men giggling with shy smiles that turn coy, fingers gaining courage as they lather each other up. Zayn admittedly spends a healthy amount of time scratching over course chest hair, Liam more helpful to actually clean them off until he’s distracted by puckering lips and the round of Zayn’s bum.

With just a few kisses in the younger is successful at fondling over Liam’s prick, picking up the pace of their night. It’s mostly soft, and Zayn loves it – loves the feeling of a dick hardening against his palm, loves the heat and the extra foreskin, and –. There’s an overwhelming urge to fall to his knees, swallow Liam whole, and worship his cock.

The desire is made known in his pitchy whine and a “Please,” brows furrowing to suck harder at Liam’s tongue.

Liam, though, denies Zayn’s request as he pushes inky hair out of the younger’s eyes with the back of a soapy hand. “Not right now, sweetheart. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Li,” Zayn beseeches, frown deepening and fingers flexing in effort to keep a grip on Liam’s slippery skin.

“No, baby,” the man coos, steps backward and further under the water flow to derail Zayn’s attempts at touch. “Naughty boys don't get treats.”

It’s a shock to Zayn still the game they play at. Even if he should be expectant of it now, he doesn’t think he’ll ever grow immune. So he swallows a gasp, a needy whimper strangled in his vocal cords. “‘M not bad.”

“No,” Liam concedes, crooks his forefinger under the younger’s chin as if he knows the position makes himself psychologically dominant, that Zayn is seconds away from tucking into his neck, “but you were _acting_ bad today. I’m sure you’ll recall.”

Zayn is on a downhill into subspace, and he's able to realize it. A state where his protective layer of skin is thin as air and Liam is able to crack open his ribcage, hold his heart hostage in a sure palm. Even more disturbing is the fact that Zayn _craves_ this feeling. The peace that washes over him after he's given himself so fully to someone who aims to please his best interests. The hypothetical process is terrifying, but in practice Zayn has found that whatever part of his conscious responsible yearns to bend to Liam’s will.

That being said, it’s almost painful in his current state to admit he had purposely sought to aggravate Liam; shame is such a suffocating emotion, cloying, but Zayn doesn't know quite how to decimate it. ”I’m sorry,” comes out a choked cry even as Zayn tries his best to hold composure.

“And what are you sorry for?” wet palms mold to the hinge of Zayn’s jaw, fingertips smoothing over the younger’s neck and the tender hollow behind his ears.

Liam’s hold is balming to Zayn’s worries, and the latter allows his eyes to flutter closed as Liam’s thumb sweeps under his eyes, over his cheekbones, fans ever-so-gently over his lashes. “Um…” deep breath to stimulate brain activity, “For being rude and catalyzing everyone’s cheating you out of a win in Bullshit.”

The older actually huffs a laugh, lips pulling into a miniscule smile. “I understand your attitude this morning; it was mainly my fault for inconveniencing you, so I forgive you for that.” Liam brushes a sweet kiss over Zayn’s right eyelid, pulls back to continue: “And I realize that you were just trying to have some fun this afternoon. But –” he breaks off, tugs his bottom lip between his teeth as brows sink. “Well, we can discuss it later if you wish. For now, I want you to know that you’re forgiven and that I’m not angry or hurt.”

Zayn leans into the twin kiss on his left eyelid, is too enveloped at first with wondering how Liam knew to give him just the right type of reassurance, basking in the relief coursing through his veins to realize that the man pulled completely away, is now standing with his backside showing as he shampoos his hair.

A bit confused, the younger makes most of the moment of privacy by giving a cursory swipe with his loofa between his cheeks where Liam’s hands failed to check. After the moment has passed, though, Zayn’s subconscious calls to attention how Liam had obviously been more bothered by the prior game of cards than at first he’d let on, biting his tongue on a confession.

Worry threatens to bubble beneath Zayn’s skin, but Liam had forgiven him, and his eyes read genuine. And Zayn’s confident that if Liam wanted to share his troubles immediately he would have, so the younger doesn’t push. Still, Zayn wants to communicate his support and gratitude towards the man, so he steps forward, runs his hands over Liam’s shoulders, kisses just below the top knob of his spine and between shoulder blades.

That intimate position runs its course, Liam turning around not a minute later to pull Zayn back under the spray to shampoo the boy’s longer hair, finish cleaning them up. It’s all playful yet sensual, both men verging toward dirty the more daring their fingertips become on each other’s skin.

 _Finally_ Zayn’s back hits the dark stone shower walls, cool texture a heavenly contrast to the steamed air, hot water, and heated palms. A breathy gasp pitches its way from Zayn, and he can’t even be ashamed because Liam’s chest rumbles with a growl.

His dick has been half-interested since being able view Liam’s torso, but with the teasing nips to his pulse point and tanned skin to scratch at, Zayn finds himself kicking to swell up. Liam responds seamlessly, catches one thigh between the younger’s and digs his fingers into Zayn’s hip to grind their cocks together, against stomachs.

“God, I love your sounds,” Liam praises, breathing strained as he undulates his hips harsher in effort to elicit more moans. “Can you turn around for me, Z?”

Focused on his immediate pleasure and not the tenfold yet to come, Zayn is loath to distance himself from the delicious friction on his throbbing prick. As soon as Liam lands a light smack to his arse cheek, though, the younger chokes off a whine and arches into Liam’s hands, finds his teeth snagging his lower lip so roughly that he fears the spill of blood.

“Shit,” Liam drags out, tone throaty and slowed, “You need it, baby, don’t you?” Whilst waiting for a response – or maybe expecting only the pathetic grunt Zayn gives – he squeezes at the arse presented to him, spreads the cheeks apart and back together. It’s almost a whisper when Liam next speaks, lips brushing the younger’s ear: “I would bend you over my knee in a heartbeat, little bird. I would. Know how well it calms you, how much you love it.”

“Li,” is a breathless acknowledgement, Zayn’s belly fluttering at the prospect. The man has ventured into these kinks before, and Zayn had enjoyed it, of course. But he’s jolted with how much his body has come to crave it. One hit has made an addict out of him.

“Can I lick you out?” Liam’s fingers dig into Zayn harder, a groan tumulting out of the man’s throat as he spreads Zayn’s cheeks apart again. A kiss is smothered to Zayn’s shoulder – possibly an effort by Liam to calm himself.

And on any other day Zayn might beg for such, but, well - “I don’t think - I mean - I _do_ clean myself regularly, but,” comes out as a squeak, Zayn shifting his hands over the stone wall in front of him, chagrin edging it’s way present.

“Hey,” the older soothes, eases his hands from Zayn’s backside to latch onto hips, another, gentler kiss pressed to Zayn’s shoulder. “If you’re worried about how you taste, then,” he cuts off and shifts closer to Zayn, a strangled sound as if he’s frustrated, “I know sweat and musk, babe. I know people don’t taste like sweets, and I like that. I fancy blokes for a reason: their headiness gets me going.” 

It’s not pressuring, and Zayn’s thankful for that. Still, though, “Just – maybe not tonight, Li, okay?” he sighs out before reaching his arm over his shoulder to cup the other’s neck.

“That’s fine, sweetheart. Do you want my fingers, then?”

“Please,” Zayn relaxes, twists his head to graze his lips over Liam’s jaw before straightening himself back up and bracing his weight against the shower wall.

“Mm. Polite,” Liam praises, tone hinting at a smirk, but Zayn doesn’t look, and Liam pulls back anyway. Not thirty seconds pass before a heavy hand is returned to Zayn’s waist. “This will be a bit cold, love.”

Zayn wiggles his hips slightly in encouragement, moans out lowly when Liam’s index taps over his hole, pushes inside, slick and cool with lube. “Mm. Feels good.”

“Yeah?” Liam queries, uses his thumb and pinkie to better expose the younger boy’s hole.

“Yeah,” Zayn confirms in a soft sigh. His eyes flutter shut, and his arms beg for him to rest his chest against the wall.

One finger isn't a stretch – especially since Liam fucked him open thoroughly not a week ago – but it doesn't do much to satiate Zayn’s urges. “Li, please; I want more.”

“Be patient, little bird,” Liam retorts, “I don't want to hurt you.”

The shower’s steam has obviously gotten to Zayn, and Liam’s presence serves not only to heighten his emotional state but his libido as well. Which is the explanation Zayn gives himself in order to allow his sinking lower into subspace.

“I _need_ it, Daddy. Feel so empty, and I need you,” is slurred frustration and desire.

Liam’s probing finger slows its pace, and Zayn wants to cry out in protest, but the atmosphere shifts higher in intensity as Liam straightens his spine and stitches his chest to Zayn’s back as close as possible. “You’re walking on thin ice, my love. Calling me _Daddy_ just so I’ll fuck you sooner?” he tsks, begins running a second fingerpad around the younger’s rim, “That’s very naughty, Zayn. Impatient, greedy, and manipulative.” 

“ _No_ ,” the boy croons back, thoughtlessly removing his right hand from the wall to twist his torso into Liam’s chest and hide against his throat. And he’s dizzy, stuck in an endless loop of too much and not enough.

Neither anticipating the reaction, Liam has to make quick work of splaying his palm across Zayn’s lower stomach to keep him from falling forward. “Please be careful, baby,” he stresses off-handedly.

“I’m sorry,” is muffled, turns the flesh of Liam’s neck almost clammy, Zayn’s fingers grappling over the man’s bicep to burrow further into his cocoon.

A drawn exhale precedes Liam’s reassurance: “You’re not in trouble,” and then, “Can you not help it, sweetheart? Do you need your Daddy that badly?”

“Mm,” the younger replies, a whimper, his left arm draping itself over Liam’s where he’s held up at the waist.

Liam nuzzles impossibly closer and peppers kisses to his boy’s jaw. “Forgive me, please; I didn’t realize you had already dropped, thought you still had a bit of fire to let out with teasing.”

Zayn doesn’t have anything to say back, is dimly aware of what’s occurring but not able to form complex notations. The other man’s tone is warm, though, so he takes it as a good sign, can’t help but melt into the affection he’s gifted.

“Do you want me to keep going?” Liam queries after a bit.

“Mm, green,” the other nods and places his hands back on stone.

“Good lad,” Liam trails his hands over Zayn’s back, hips to calm him.

Thick fingers ease their way in, Zayn gasping at the added digit and crooning contentedly as it curls, stretches his hole. No time passes before the younger’s arching his back and squirming backward to feel Liam’s fingers.

A harsh slap rings throughout the bathroom, Zayn’s left arsecheek on fire with just one hit. “Be _still_ ,” the man responsible scolds, “I know what you want, and I won’t leave you without, but if you keep distracting me with your gorgeous little body it will only take longer for me to get inside you.”

Obediently, Zayn halts his canting hips. He does shift backward once more, though, closer to his partner’s heat, and he’s secretly preening at having received such attention, is basking in the tingling sensation left behind.

Or maybe not so secretly, because Liam lays his palm over Zayn’s prickling bum, chuckles slightly as he massages. “I’m going to have to come up with a punishment that you _don’t_ enjoy, baby boy.” 

“Don’t need it; ‘m always good,” Zayn replies cheekily.

“Oh, is that right?” the older trails his left hand back over Zayn’s stomach, rests chin on shoulder whilst kneeing Zayn’s legs wider apart.

“Mhm,” Zayn hums out, giggle stuck at the back of his throat.

Liam teases a third finger past the boy’s rim and mouths over his stubbled jaw as a hitched moan is elicited. “I think you’re only good for me when you can share the profit.”

Due to the chatter chancing volatile, Zayn’s belly fills with an uncomfortable weight completely unrelated to the pressure Liam’s fingers apply. And Liam’s gone quiet as well, so Zayn knows that this is something to be addressed. “No, Li,” he hushes, straightens his spine cautiously so as not to fall off of the knife’s edge into pain, “I wish to always please you because someone like you deserves to be happy.”

In the blink of an eye, sweltering is the ambiance, no longer sultry. The older man’s gaze scalds Zayn’s skin, and Zayn thinks he might suffocate in the lack of Liam’s response, his oxygen. 

Deft fingers working their way over Zayn’s angry prick shocks an intake of breath, fortunately, and Liam places his lips to the corner of the younger’s mouth, draws out the kiss while he slowly pumps Zayn. “I don’t deserve someone as wonderfully devastating as you.”

A beautiful contradiction. Zayn thinks that his being doesn’t warrant a ‘ _wonderful_.’

“Liam,” the younger aims to aussage, twists further clockwise to display the sincerity on his countenance, “You’re incredible, as near to perfect as I’ve come across.”

The older’s eyes are rested shut, fuzzy brows pulled down, and he shushes Zayn but nudges their noses together and continues his ministrations on Zayn’s heavy cock. “Just –”

It’s accepted that Liam needs a moment. That’s not to say that Zayn understands what has shaken the other so suddenly, but he allows Liam to immerse himself in his own headspace nevertheless. And because Liam hasn’t failed to maintain their arousal, Zayn uses his left hand to fondle Liam’s balls, smooths over the taint because it’s erogenous for most, ease a fist around the thick of Liam’s prick.

A deep kiss slots the couple’s lips together. Zayn’s side has begun to ache due to a prolonged twisted stance, but Liam’s mouth is warm in such a pleasing way, touch supplying an intimacy that manages to draw him both closer to the edge and drowse him all at once. And Zayn finds himself lifting onto the his toes, jerking Liam’s head against his twitching hole to satiate his craving.

Emerged from his private moment, Liam works a tantalizing suckle over the other man’s lower lip before pulling backward. “We need a condom, little bird.”

Zayn groans inadvertently. “I want to feel you everywhere, Li,” is whiny, facing once again the shower wall to press his shoulders to the older man’s chest. There’s room left between their hips, though, Zayn flicking his wrist languorously over the pulsing cock at his opening.

“Please be good for me, sweetheart,” Liam groans into Zayn’s ear. “I'd love nothing more than to wreck you, but we’re wrinkling in my parents’ shower, and the risk of transmitting a disease is not worth it.”

Conceding the other man’s point is rather difficult in Zayn’s state – horny and tired and verging on hassled. But Zayn’s able to comprehend and rationalize, so he allows Liam’s retrieval of the condom. Not before squeezing tight around the dick in hand, pressing into the slit to gleam precum over the head, though. Zayn groans as well just in case Liam isn’t able to grasp the extent of his discordance.

Liam’s slap to the younger’s arse shocks a squeal out of Zayn in that it’s completely unanticipated. “Such a bratty little prince.”

“That’s _King_ to you,” Zayn snips back, irritated more so that he didn’t see the reprimand coming than that he received one. But just because he’s bitter, “And the next time you lay a hand on me I’ll have your head.”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Liam continues in a grave tone, and Zayn can picture the smirk. “Allow me to seek atonement.”

Zayn peeks over his shoulder at the prompt, nearly amused with Liam’s charade. And what his gaze lands on is the golden Trojan package in Liam’s hand. “Is that ribbed?” he blurts.

“Mhm,” the other confirms, large palms pillowing Zayn’s hips as he assumes his prior position. “Condoms can be fun, see?”

“You’ll be the death of me yet,” is how Zayn replies, tone moaning as he hitches his arse skyward, rests his forearms flat against the stone wall and allows his head to fall into the crook of his left elbow.

Liam gifts a peck to the back of Zayn’s neck, smooths his hands down skinny thighs before retreating once more to put the protection on. “There you are, love,” he initiates once he’s prepped himself.

Truthfully, Zayn’s a bit overwhelmed. Though Liam isn’t _too_ big and being filled up will satisfy him, he’s almost nervous to take the man seeing as he hasn’t made it a habit to practice sex regularly. And Zayn’s emotions are roaring, an urge to please Liam both physically and emotionally gnawing prominent at his stomach. 

Braving up despite his reservations, the younger grips Liam firmly once more. He’s slick with lube, and the _ridges_ \- “This is going to destroy my arse, Li.”

Throaty chuckles fill the air before Liam replaces Zayn’s hand with his own, taps his crown playfully against the aforementioned arse. “We’ll take it slow, little bird. I want this to be good for you.”

And Liam makes sure that it is: Warm lips trail themselves up Zayn’s neck, one hand fondling over his ruddy dick and massaging inner thigh, fist eventually working a rhythm that has the younger lad keening with abandon as he tries to roll back onto the prick continually snubbing his entrance.

Zayn loses himself in pleasure, has to marshal a ridiculous amount of willpower to slow down. “No, Daddy,” he mewls and pushes the fingers on his cock away. “Want you inside of me when I come.”

“Shh, shh,” the older balms, allowing Zayn to take note of the myriad of whimpers he’s been continually heaving. Rough fingerpads trace circles into Zayn’s lower belly. “Always working yourself up, angel. Don’t know if edging helps much, either.”

Maybe his lover has a point, but they’ll have to discuss it when Zayn’s thought process stabilizes. As it is, “ _Please_. Fill me up.”

“Alright, love,” Liam sedes once Zayn’s breathing is less frantic, “Easy does it.”

The boy lolls his head to the side in hopes that firmer bites will appease the adrenalin raging in his blood. And he makes an effort to ground himself by splaying his fingers between Liam’s on his stomach.

Liam breeches Zayn’s hole then, and Zayn’s glad that three fingers were used to open him up because instead of an ache in his arse with the thick of Liam’s head there’s a stuttered sigh of contentment.

“ _That_ ’s a good lad,” Liam mumbles, “Look at you, love. So pink around my dick.”

Too busy relishing his own sensation of fulfillment, Zayn doesn’t even bother rolling his eyes at his partner’s shining arousal. It’s not like he has room to tease, anyway. In fact, “Keep going, yeah?”

“Mm. You’re so _tight_ ,” Liam blabbers, pushing in an inch more before laughing, taunting, “Even after I worked you open so wide you’re barely swallowing my cock.”

“ _Li_ ,” the younger pitches out as he tenses around the ribs. Thus far Liam’s dick has been soothing to his arousal, but the added texture sends tingling spikes to his wet prick.

“Does it feel good, baby?” Liam hums his acknowledgement to Zayn’s ear, slowly sinking in further.

Labored breaths. “It’s so – _much_.”

“Let me make it better?” Liam offers, but he doesn't wait for a reply before he's working over Zayn’s prick once more. His strong palm molds around Zayn so nicely, and the pressure is just hard enough to take off the edge with a few slow swipes upward.

As Liam pulls out to push back in, Zayn’s exhales stutters, the slow tempo paired with the added texture in his arse so tantalizingly good. He knows that if they were to play any rougher that the stimulation would be too much to handle. But in the moment it’s more than he could have fantasized. “I’m not going to last long, babe,” he admits, cheek cooling itself against ragged stone.

“Neither ‘m I,” Liam heaves out. He sounds slightly out of it, rhythm rising staccato. “But I’d fuck you all night if I could, baby.”

After Zayn falls into his own steady pleasure it takes a few minutes for Liam to work himself down as well, smooth thrusts and clenched eyes as Zayn finds humor in Liam’s excitement, teases him with dirty nothings.

“ _Zayn_ ,” the older moans and squeezes slim hips for emphasis, forehead falling against a broad, olive shoulder.

“Yes, Daddy?” Zayn plays it up, gives a subtle rotation of his arse and tilts his head to offer up more skin for Liam’s mouth.

A moment of level breathing fills their silence. Liam does eventually end up succumbing to the supple skin at his mouth. “This is torture. You’re so – _enthralling_ – and you’re letting me take you, and I can’t even keep it together for ten seconds.”

Briefly Zayn entertains the scene of Liam spending his work hours reading a dictionary. Past that, though, Zayn sighs fondly. “Haven’t we just gone over this? Liam, have you no idea what you do to me?”

The man doesn’t respond verbally at first, but he does cover Zayn’s hand where its holding him up against the wall, intertwines their fingers and eases out of Zayn’s hole halfway. “Little bird –”

“No, baby, please,” the younger insists. He tugs Liam’s right hand from his waist and to his mouth for a kiss in an effort to pacify. It’s significant, Zayn knows, that their hands together on his stomach give him such confidence. “You seem so put-together all the time. Genuine in all I’ve seen you do, and you’re always taking me into consideration, trying to please me.”

It’s shallow thrusts, their love-making. And with all of Zayn’s focus on rambling he’s beginning to lose grip again on his climax. Liam’s obviously chasing his own as well, but he’s listening to Zayn, and the latter finds warmth in the sincerity even over their intimate touches.

“Knowing that I’m able to take you apart, stutter your heartbeat, cause you to fall over words,” Zayn continues, “I don’t mean to take the piss. It’s just so amazing that I’m able to fuck you up the same way you’re able to so easily do me.”

Liam presses his lips to Zayn’s cheekbone, trails them to his vulnerable jaw. “My heart hasn’t stopped racing since the moment I laid eyes on you,” is hushed yet oh-so loud.

And Zayn doesn’t know where the conversation will lead if they both keep uttering soft words. With two red, beating hearts being slipped into each other’s palms, possibly.

But he isn’t given the chance to find out, because as soon as Liam pulls out fully to ram back in the breath is knocked out of him, and he knows there’s less than a minute on the clock.

| _Sunday_ |

For Zayn, there’s a unique feeling associated with arriving back at his apartment, the surrounding blocks he’s etched into the back of his hand since settling here six years ago. It’s not quite _home_ , but it settles contentedness and security in his stomach.

The prior night he picked no fights with sleep, lights out even before Liam was able to round the bed after laying him down. Likewise, waking up in the morning was more enjoyable than usual with Liam’s hand caressing his cheek and the promise of a full english. And, barring James’s disappointment, having to take off for the city wasn’t disheartening. Because Karen and Geoff seemed sincere in wishing him back, and Liam’s shy smile was all the confirmation Zayn needed that he approved of the message.

The two have been quiet all morning. Not reserved, no, as their touches have grown more consistent in place of words that neither feel the necessity to conjure. It’s something Zayn wouldn’t mind at all creating more permanent in his life, but he’s not come far enough to admit it yet.

Liam parks his bike and walks Zayn the ten feet to his building, and it’s rather adorable. Especially with Liam in his hoodie again and beard having scruffed up fuller overnight. Maybe because he’s half-asleep or maybe because he craves the man’s proximity, Zayn lays one hand on a thick waist, uses the other to run through Liam’s wind-swept, coffee hair. 

A moment passes in which they marinade in each other’s presence, and just when Zayn thinks to say the first goodbye, Liam speaks up: “I realize it’s incredibly late notice, and I apologize for that, but I was wondering if you’ve got plans tonight.”

Truthfully, Zayn wishes to sleep until noon to prepare himself for later informing Simone on his plans (or lack thereof) for the article. But Liam reads as nervous in asking, and that intrigues Zayn. “Have you got something particular in mind?” 

A nod, shuffling feet. “Do you remember me mentioning the diamond account I’m working on? My company is hosting a party for the couple of Dilaurentis Diamonds tonight at the Astor Museum,” he breaks, tilts his head to meet Zayn’s gaze whilst standing a step below, “And I wouldn’t want anyone else accompanying me as my date.”

Zayn blinks owlishly a few times before he’s helpless to a smile lifting his cheeks, slowly shaking his head. As soon as Liam’s shoulders begin slumping Zayn realizes what his response must look like, and that won’t do. “How am I ever going to be able to treat you as well as you do me?”

The other man looks down with the tops of his cheeks coloring, skips over response to what is becoming an ongoing discussion. “Is that a yes?”

Again Zayn shakes his head, but there’s amusement evident with a light laugh, and he steps forward to wrap his arms over Liam’s shoulders, press their bodies together. “Of course, Liam. I’d love to be there for you.”

Liam’s smile seems uncontrollable as it stretches the man’s cheeks a lovely red. “A follow-up question is then required,” he informs whilst still holding Zayn’s waist tight to him after a stolen moment of tender gaze.

The younger pulls back to cock an eyebrow, smirk in place. 

Almost sheepish rather than shy, Liam explains: “A display of the Dilaurentis’ jewelry will be set up for guests to – er – test for the evening. You’re welcome to do so as well, but I’ve also got something extra in mind for you if you so wish.”

Zayn considers joking about the ‘extra’ being an engagement ring, but he doesn’t exactly want to remind Liam of all the lurid shit he’s pulled. “Care to explain?”

“Well, it’s an outfit,” is all that Liam offers. “I don’t want to tell you who by lest you decline, though.”

“This doesn’t sound too promising, Mr. Payne,” Zayn tries to tease, but, admittedly, the very notion of Liam gifting him clothes so impressive makes him a bit anxious.

“Just hear me out, Zayn,” he holds his hands palms-up, is playing rather than nervous now, “I’m sure you’ve realized by now that I’ve got a decent pocketbook and connections due to the advertising I work with. I’ve got not much use for the connections for just myself, but it makes me happy to gift other people.”

Concern is etching its way into Zayn’s features, because Liam seems to be worrying himself disproportionately. He extends his hand, and Liam takes it, presses the back to his lips.

“I promise the things I buy don’t come out costing as much as you think, and I want to spoil you a bit.”

“I accept, babe,” Zayn is quick to reassure, “It’s just hard for me because I don’t know how to repay you.”

It’s Liam’s turn to shake his head, and he does so. “Seeing you preen under my attention is repayment enough, love.” 

The younger is just about to hide his face against Liam’s neck when the latter chucks his chin, holds it with a thumb. “I’ve got to make arrangements, but a package will arrive here for you at 4:00, and I’ll pick you up at 7:00. Yes?”

Zayn nods as best he can, consents to an indulgent kiss that probably contains too much tongue (even if soft and hidden) for public eye.

“By the way,” Liam pipes up once they’re separated by the steps of Zayn’s building. He’s almost smug, Zayn’s willingness to receive his offers likely promoting confidence. “Don’t make plans for next weekend, because I hear the chemistry between Cap and Tony isn’t something you want to miss.”

**

If he had to give rank, Zayn would say that standing outside of Simone’s office in the current moment is one of the most nerve-wracking he’s spent at work.

Which is funny considering how unintimidating Simone is once you learn her. Vapid, yes, but she nevertheless holds Zayn’s future with Prestige in the palm of her hand.

He’s wasting time. He still has to pick up Yoda from Harry’s, drop the cat off at Liam’s, stop by the market, and be back at his apartment with enough time to mentally prepare himself for the attire Liam is sending. Yet he’s spent a solid seven minutes stood outside Simone’s door growing irrationally angry with the neon versus white color scheme.

Zayn counts down from ten, but he doesn’t knock at ‘zero’. 

So, instead, he replays in his head time spent with Liam. From the meeting in which he accepted his assignment to this morning, Zayn goes over the time he’s known the other lad. Harboring all details that promote guilt and regret, he finally feels as empowered as he did when the decision to cancel the article was first met.

He raps on the door possibly a bit too harshly.

“Come in,” Simone’s voice rings out.

Upon entering, Zayn finds his boss leaned over her desk, leafing through haphazard stacks of papers. “Simone,” he voices in greeting.

Without looking up, she addresses, “What brings you to my office, Zayn?” Her tone is dull, tired. Almost as if she knows what he’s going to say next.

Zayn takes a breath, sweeps the room with his eyes. The walls are painted lavender grey now, which is quite different from her Kermit green phase of two months ago. Absently, Zayn connects that violet is meant to provoke deep thoughts and bright ideas. He wonders if it has helped Simone at all. Distractingly, there’s a nice view out of her window, but the furniture is red oak and lamps are used rather than the ceiling lights, which bothers Zayn.

“I can’t write the article, Simone.”

“Can’t you, Zayn?” she retorts, still inflectionless with no eye contact.

He steps forward, folds one hand over the other. “I’ve come to the conclusion that I would rather not betray the trust and confidence of the man I’ve been seeing.” A pause, Zayn clearing his throat, irritated that Simone has yet to properly acknowledge him. “He’s such a good guy –“

“Do you address me by _Doctor_ Calvert?” his boss cuts him off abruptly, palms flat to her desk, face toward him.

A tense pause. “No, I don’t,” Zayn grits his teeth, clasps his hands behind his back.

Simone looks away again, begins straightening papers methodically. “That’s because I’m not your therapist, Malik, but your boss.” She tosses her gaze sideways to Zayn before rounding her desk to file away her documents. “My job is to oversee the content production for Prestige Magazine. My job,” she turns back to Zayn, “is to make sure articles are written.”

Understandably, Zayn is offended. He does realize that Simone is his superior, and he tries his best to respect that, but. “I can have an article written. Just not one that makes all parties involved look a fool.”

Assuming stance behind her desk, Simone stares blankly at Zayn for a few seconds. She pivots, sashays slowly over to her window before settling to look out of it, crosses her arms over her chest.

If this were a movie, Zayn thinks, this moment would be monumental. Awkward, perhaps, but Zayn steps closer to the window as well.

“You want high standing in print media,” Simone states.

“Er – I do,” Zayn confirms, “but I also would like to enjoy my work.”

His boss lets out a sardonic laugh, looks over her left shoulder to eye Zayn. “You’ve got to put in work, and this is just the bottom rung of the ladder, kid.”

Arguably, his position now is the second rung. The foundation for the ladder to stand on would be education and schooling, the first would be running around with scalding coffees and colonizing the copy room as goes with interning, and the second would be where Zayn is now – a full-page trivial column that is sometimes cut back to allow room for a wider gossip spread.

It’s been silent too long for Zayn, and he’s feeling bold. “I just wish I were able to write things differently. _How-to_ is fine, but the subject matters I’m allowed are juvenile and often times demeaning.”

“You said your articles makes Prestige look stupid, did you not?” she continues viewing through her window, doesn’t let Zayn reply, “I beg to differ. Every journalist now allowed an editorial in the _New York Times_ started from the bottom as well. They know dumb articles are not often the views of the writer, so there’s not traction lost with prominent people in the field. And our consumers are the ones buying into it, so who’s truly the fool?”

Zayn is – shocked. He knows that in journalism everyone must build their career from the ground up, but having his boss speak ill of their readers is bit disconcerting. Even as Simone turns to go back to her desk Zayn stays put, a bird’s eye view of the people and buildings and traffic below.

“It’s all fake, Simone. Take for example the _how-to_ I did on escaping a speeding ticket: I spoke to a cop and asked his opinon on the best way to get out of one, but I didn’t actually try my hand at speeding and getting caught. The anecdotes weren’t reality.” He’s grown visibly frustrated, forehead wrinkling. Still, he faces the older woman. “We’re training a horde of mindless sheep.”

“The sheep have money, Zayn,” Simone dregs, leaned over her desk to look over a poster.

“But –“

“Keep writing what is approved of and you’ll be able to make it to the next wrung,” she cuts him off, “The cover for June’s issue is at the printer as we speak, and there’s a special section on Dilaurentis Diamonds as they prepare to launch more advertising strategies, which will cover our ad quota for the rest of the year.”

When Simone stands back up, Zayn is able to get a look of June’s first cover with Selena Gomez. The background is white, the lettering orange, and he’s definitely seen worse. He takes in a deep breath and is preparing to reason further when he’s stuck with an idea that now seems the easiest option.

“I want a copy of _How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days_ on my desk in 24 hours, Malik,” his boss reminds as he spins to exit her office.

A ladder needs something to prop against, and an audience seems to fit the metaphor well. Zayn figures if fake is what they want then they shouldn’t have any qualms with a fabricated story.

**

Extravagant is the best way Liam can describe the setup for the Dilaurentis party. He’s not been in the Astor Museum but once, and it was grand that time as well, but this time the music is more pleasant, the decorations more expensive, and the people more important.

Not to mention that Zayn was not with him the first time.

The stunning lad had been understandably shy upon Liam’s arrival at his complex, but he was delighted with the attention, Liam could tell. So Liam didn’t hold back his awe, rubbed his palm over Zayn’s freshly buzzed, blonde hair (because the green dye wanted to overstay its welcome) and begged into a makeout session to satiate the nerves the younger boy always alights. Luckily enough, the partition was already in place before Zayn was picked up.

Further, Zayn had been thoroughly impressed with the Rolls-Royce Liam rented for the night, and every few minutes Liam would catch him trailing his eyes over his berry-colored _Louis Vuitton_ blouse, fingers testing the silk. Zayn only tucked his chin when he was caught, leaned further into Liam for kisses to layer his trimmed jaw.

Stood just inside the entrance, Liam knows they must depart soon. He has to conduct business, entertain the Dilaurentis, after all. Letting go of his date isn’t on the top of his list.

“I’ve got to check in with Winston, and then I’ll grab us some drinks from the bar,” Liam murmurs to the younger’s ear but keeps his arm tight around the slimmer waist. “Would you like to look at the jewelry?”

Zayn turns to face Liam with a coy smile. “Champagne sounds nice. Anything too heavy and I’m afraid you’ll be bent over for me before we can make it home.” His lashes blink lazily as if he doesn’t know what his teasing does to Liam’s arousal.

Truly, Liam wishes not much more than to wine and dine the boy, let him ramble all night on his interests and then ride his dick until the first rays of sunlight. But tonight serves primarily to advance his own career, and he knows that even a kiss to Zayn’s cheek he wouldn’t be able to pull away from, so he takes a step back. “It’s the new hair, little bird,” Liam joshes back. On a more serious note, though, “Enjoy the party while it lasts. I’d rather us only stay long enough for a few chats past formality expects.”

A harsh smirk still twists the younger’s lips, but it softens as they hold each other’s gaze. “I think I have something to talk to you about, Liam.”

Liam’s own smile drops, worry rearing up in his stomach. “Good or bad?” he tries to laugh, but it might sound pathetic. The other hasn’t room to judge.

Zayn averts his eyes, vouches not to answer for a moment to instead smooth his hand over the lapel of Liam’s suit jacket, thumb a slender black tie. “It doesn’t have to be bad, I don’t think,” the boy takes time to say his words, “I’d very much like for it not to be.”

The response does little to settle Liam’s insecurities, and it’s likely written on his face, because Zayn looks back up to add: “You’re not at fault, bumblebee. I also think it’s obvious that I’m quite smitten, so I don’t plan to ruin us.”

Warmth fills Liam stomach instead as if he’s already downed a flute of bubbly. “Alright, little bird,” he chances a glance at his black Hublot, hopes the action isn’t read as rude. “I probably should have made my appearance a few minutes ago.”

“You’ll do great,” Zayn insists with his palm rested over Liam’s sternum, “and you look dashing, Mr. Payne.”

Liam itches to press his lips to Zayn’s but instead he flashes his teeth, takes the boy’s hand and draws it to his mouth, kisses gently over knuckles. “As do you, love. Try and treat yourself for tonight.”

The younger grins, departs with grace, and Liam is stuck on staring at him as he reaches the jewelry display.

It takes a few moments of Liam weaving in and out of groups to find Winston, and when they meet eyes Winston merely nods at him, apparently deep in conversation with the silver-highlighted woman in front of him. Liam takes the nod as free reign to mingle.

On his way to the bar Liam notices Pearson and Steele already there, and he considers grabbing two flutes of champagne that are served as favors rather than finer stuff. But Steele spots him, and he knows he’ll appear like a dog with a tucked tail if he backs away now.

“Ladies,” Liam greets briefly before flagging a bartender, requesting the man’s choice drink with a hard liquor and soda. He thinks he’ll need the courage tonight, but Zayn was right to say that too much will beg a special show from Liam that the whole party ought not to see.

“You’ve got him here. I’ll give you that,” Pearson starts drily.

“But that could simply be for the perks you’re able to provide,” Steele finishes.

Liam has to work for their cruel commentary not to go to heart, and he’s helped along when the bartender places a Tequila Sunrise in front of him. He takes a sip to ease into the night, wishes Lips & Hips would evacuate the premises for him to drink in peace, but they remain standing near except in their own conversation.

Despite having parted from Zayn partially in order to clear his mind and regain control of himself, his eyes seek the younger boy out. And Liam is thoroughly endeared, proud. Zayn is holding his ground with Mr. Dilaurentis, nodding and smiling and looking lovely as the older man requests a certain bracelet for Zayn to wear, employees at the stand scurrying to deliver.

His coworkers step in front of him just as Mr. Dilaurentis moves on and Zayn floats to the earring section on his own, people around him leaning closer to strike conversation.

Finally Liam looks up, and the women are cutting off his view with their clutched purses, suggesting that they’re ready to move on. “Looks like you’ve got competition, Payne. The strings he can pull are much more impressive than yours.” They promptly clack off in all of their stiletto and little black dress infamy.

A scoff escapes Liam as soon as they’re gone due to the ludicrousness of the suggestion. Zayn, after all, has shown no signs that he’s after Liam’s pocketbook. He’s begun to allow himself to enjoy upmarket gifts, but that doesn’t mean the boy’s a gold digger.

Liam _knows_ that Zayn isn’t with him because of his money.

He takes a gulp of his drink, anyway.

A few more moments pass of Liam’s attention idly sweeping over the party guests, and he enjoys critiquing attire and catching snippets of conversation. When he takes his eyes from the ballroom’s stage he can’t find Zayn, and he’s shifting to leave the bar when someone steps in front of him.

Mrs. Dilaurentis acts thrilled to see him, claps her hands together once, and the lights bounce off of her box-colored pixie cut that’s as candy red as her dress. “Excuse me young man, but I was directed over here by one Ben Winston, and I was wondering if you’d be so kind as to order me a screaming orgasm.”

Trying to hide his discomfort with the outspokenness, Liam forces a smile, tries to view the vivacious woman as freshly entertaining. “Mrs. Dilaurentis, it’s a pleasure. My name is Liam Payne, and I’m with Winston Advertising.”

“Oh, the pleasure is mine,” Dilaurentis throws a hand over her heart, “I’m so pleased with the party your company has thrown in my honor.”

Liam refrains indefinitely from correcting the missus that the party was rather thrown for her husband because he controls a great many jewelers and thus approximately seventy percent of the world’s diamond supply. It’s a bit hard to not be blunt, though, when her fiery nails are clawed over his chest. “Well, I can assure you that our presentation is just as promising.”

While Mrs. Dilaurentis laughs, Liam twists away to again request a bartender. The same one that served Liam earlier takes his order of a Screaming O now, and when he sees that the Red Woman is in their midst he tosses Liam an underhanded smirk.

**

Waiting for Liam to make his reappearance, Zayn tries his luck with a sparkling white wine gifted from a server. Since being bombarded by people talking him up about the diamonds on his wrist he’s grown weary of conversation, has decided to find his seat in the ballroom. He’d truly like to be by Liam’s side even if it meant acting as an accessory, but a few extra moments apart surely won’t do them harm.

What catches his eye on the way to his seat is a bright red dress, and, low and behold, Liam chatting with the woman responsible. He’s intrigued enough, leans against a pillar to sip out of his flute.

Just a few moments pass before Zayn realizes that the tone of their conversation is likely being steered toward less-than-innocent. Zayn would become angry if not for the lack of crinkles by his date’s eyes, which indicates inauthentic laughter, Liam shifting away every time the lady tries to paw at his torso, and the fact that the man is extremely gay.

Still, Zayn’s urged to step in and protect Liam from discontentment if not lay his own claim on the older man. He convinces himself not to lest the conversation be of top import for Liam’s career, and he instead traipses back toward the seating area.

He’s taking in the stage’s indigo, starry curtain, the white cloths over round tables, the various white-flowered centerpieces when a man floats into his line of vision, obviously walking toward Zayn.

He’s dressed in a fitting tux, black bow tie slightly crooked. Despite, he’s quite handsome. “Excuse me,” the man’s voice rings out, “you’re Zayn, yes?” 

Although confused, Zayn tries not to show it. “I am.”

“I’m Ben Winston of Warren Advertising,” the man shows off a dazzling smile.

Zayn’s admittedly a bit caught on the man’s features before what he’s said clicks into place, and, “Oh, you’re Liam’s boss.” Hopefully he doesn’t look too much an idiot as he extends his hand.

Winston only continues to smile, takes Zayn’s hand, “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“And I, yours,” Zayn replies, wonders when he’ll be able to draw his palm from Winston’s grip as the boss has held it too long. “Your company has done an excellent job organizing this gala.”

“The party has just started,” Winston leans closer with a wink, squeezes Zayn’s hand once more before dropping it.

Zayn is fully prepared to excuse himself to the restroom in order to escape a creeping awkwardness when Winston transitions into a new topic: “I must comment on the inspiration you’ve been to Liam whilst he prepares to pitch to the Dilaurentis.”

Furrowing brow, the younger has to look away, places his eyes on the instruments propped on stage for the entertainment to come. The allusion is a bit ridiculous, isn’t it? “I’ve seen some of Liam’s projects, and I think he was just as well-off before he met me.” And it’s true. The day that Zayn went to Liam’s office for lunch he could hardly keep up with Liam’s ideas, sat there quietly to try and absorb as much information as possible on the diamond campaign.

Winston holds his tongue, cocks his head. “He’s talented, yes. Surely you’ve seen your own impact on tonight, though? The slogan for the campaign is ‘ _Frost Yourself_ ’, after all,” Winston continues, eyeing Zayn as if he’s yet to take the hint.

It takes a moment to connect details in his brain, but Zayn can vaguely recall having referred to Yoda’s collar as ‘frosting’. The comment was absurd to say the least, but as a catchphrase in an ad it’s not half bad. Zayn glances to Winston who is angled more toward Zayn than the stage. “It was Liam’s ingenuity that created his sell.”

The other man stares at Zayn a moment before nodding slightly, taking a sip of his drink as if resigned. A beat later, though, “Your boy has been much more excited for the party as of recent than he was when it was first announced. Seeing you in your finery, I can see why he would be.”

Zayn subconsciously brushes a forefinger over his nose, still careful of the diamond stud. Not to mention the linked bracelet that jangles musically with every flick of his wrist. The jewelry is a slight distraction from the fact that Zayn doesn’t like where his current conversation is going. “It pleases Liam to gift things, but I don’t care for the insinuation that Liam is only seeing me for my looks.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way,” Winston clarifies, stuffs one hand in his trouser pocket, “Just that having someone so dear to spoil would certainly motivate a man to perform his best for the night.” He steps closer once more, tilts his head quizzically, “Would you not say that you have been influenced by Liam likewise?”

And, well. That’s a fair question. Zayn believes that influence is pulled from everything around you, but it is true that Liam has been the biggest factor in Zayn’s work as of recent. For obvious reason.

Cutting into Zayn’s thoughts, Winston adds, “Nothing is more inspired than a man in love.”

“No,” Zayn reacts immediately, cheeks heating at his sharp outburst and palms wanting to raise in defense. He lifts his flute to his mouth to give his motor neurons something to do. “I mean, there’s certainly something to agree with in your belief, but I’m not in love.”

“Are you not?” Winston interrogates, tiny smirk easy on his features as if he knows something Zayn doesn’t, “I was speaking of Liam as the man in love, but you assuming I meant it as you should say enough.”

Zayn hopes the color of his cheeks can be blamed on his wine as he’s stuck on Liam’s boss declaring his employee in love. He would deem the whole situation mortifying if his brain didn’t first pounce to past happenings between Liam and himself. Whether he’s trying to confirm or deny the possibility he won’t allow himself to answer.

There have been moments where their eye contact lasted long past what should be considered comfortable, and there have been times when Liam’s smile was too wide to be simple enjoyment, and there have been instances where Zayn swore he could stay in that place forever. But, “It’s only been ten days, Mr. Winston. We couldn’t possibly be in love.”

“No? I’m sorry for my speculation. It’s in the way you look at each other, I suppose,” Winston shrugs, positions himself away from Zayn as if in deep musing.

Frightening is what the supposition is. Thrilling and exposing as well, but the notion that one’s life could change so drastically in so little time is frightening mostly. When Zayn thinks of Liam and their time spent together, though, it’s not frightening. Liam is comfort and laughter, ease and enjoyment. Past his concerns rotating around the article, Zayn is not frightened by what Liam and him have, and for that reason he doesn’t feel it should be proclaimed as ‘ _love_ ’. 

Still, Zayn is rubbed the wrong way by Winston apologizing for believing either he is loved by Liam or that Liam is loved by him. The man seems to be walking off when Zayn finds his tongue: “One day I think I could love him. One day I could possibly be enough for him to love. But there is much to factor in before that day comes.” It’s sure. Freeing to admit.

Winston has stopped, and he twists back around. “That is fair enough, Zayn.” He nods, commences his walk away.

Zayn is pleased with himself for a short moment, but then panic seizes at his chest. “Wait, Mr. Winston! Please keep my confidence in this.”

The man smiles, nods again.

**

Just as soon as Liam escapes Mrs. Dilaurentis, Andy and Niall bombard him with incessant questions: “What did she say? Why was she all over you? Did you win?”

He’s a bit worn out, and his drink hasn’t done much but slow him down further. Right now, Liam wants to steal Zayn away for the night and say screw all to the damned bet that has haunted nearly every waking moment. Shamelessly, he wants to crawl into the other lad’s lap, order takeaway, and watch dry reality t.v. Wants to feel like a proper couple. Sue him.

Liam is preparing to shrug off his friends as politely as possible when he feels someone clap a hand on his shoulder, which causes him to lift his shoulders to protect from the threat. It’s only Winston, though. Which, well – his earlier instinct still stands reasonable.

“Congratulations, point man: that boy is yours, the pitch is yours,” his boss informs, catches Liam’s eye long enough to wink before he’s off again.

The news shouldn’t be as big a shock as Liam takes it: Zayn feeling anything close to _love_ for him. It’s maybe because Zayn switches between loudly annoyed and quietly affectionate every other day that has driven Liam into such confusion as to their relationship. Such enthrallment.

It’s a whirlwind, truly, but Liam has decided on assuming that the boy’s back and forth is meant to be a test. Of what caliber Liam has admittedly not configured. Considering Zayn has been on a sweet streak nearly all weekend, and with the knowledge that he must have said something to convince Winston of their relationship’s genuineness, Liam allows himself to hope he’s close to winning Zayn’s game.

His smile is far from contained, a rush of excitement in his veins, noradrenaline rampant. He should be introducing himself to Mr. Dilaurentis, should be utilizing his elevated mood to socialize and make connections.

Instead, he searches out Zayn.

Again, as if fate is not in his favor, an older woman steps in front of him, ecstatic as Mrs. Dilaurentis was, but this time there’s natural, artful streaks of silver in pitch hair. A navy dress paired with magenta lips is – er – definitely a statement.

“You’re the new point man for the Dilaurentis?” she asks.

An internalized sigh. Because the feelings associated with his success are not in full affect right now. They’re taking backseat to his yearning to touch Zayn’s skin. “Yes. Liam Payne,” is dutifully professional as he extends his hand.

“It’s lovely to meet you, then,” the woman grips his palm lightly, eyes shining. “I’m Simone Calvert, executive director of Prestige Magazine.”

Connections it is, apparently. Fortunately, the publication and therefore Calvert are of interest to Liam in that he knows Zayn works for Prestige. He vaguely wonders if Zayn knows his boss is here. Oh, yes – the boss he dislikes. “Pleasure, Mrs. Calvert. You’re friends with Winston, I presume.”

“Please, call me Simone, and I am, yes,” she confirms before leaning in and tilting her head conspiratorially, “It’s been a much quicker process to meet my ad quota for the year with his ventures.” Simone then proceeds to toss back a laugh as if she’s made the joke of the century.

Liam can’t tell if she seriously thinks she’s funny. He veers on the side of caution, surmises his own laugh. “I’m quite impressed with the rise of Prestige’s value, by the way.

And the compliment proves to be a mistake on Liam’s part, Simone gushing like a broken dam once she’s given enough room to. Adjectives are utilized oddly – some even Liam hasn’t learned – and hands articulate as she goes on about the ‘average reader’ and how she’s managed to appoint her staff so well.

More than ever, Liam desires to get back to his date if only to share a sense of fatigue that’s come from the nuisance that Simone Calvert has proven to be. Liam is adept at this type of chatter, though, so he nods his head on interval, trains a dazzling grin, and scorches the locale for the one person he’s _determined_ to get back to.

After a few minutes of balancing conversation and a national fucking treasure hunt, Liam spies his date sat at a table, glass of wine in hand, flanked by – Andy and Niall? Which, that’s different. Liam’s so intrigued that he accidentally blurts, “Excuse me, Simone, but there’s a beautiful young man in diamonds that I just have to get to.”

Not insulted, seemingly, Simone picks right back up, “Oh, Zayn? He’s my _How-To_ guy!”

And that’s –. Maybe Liam will stick around a second longer. “ _How-To_?” he’s more than politely interested, didn’t actually know what beat Zayn covered until now.

“His style is refreshing, and he’s quite talented a writer. He’d be on a straight path to the top if he only knew how to follow instructions,” Simone shakes her head as if disappointed.

And Liam can see that definitely even after only knowing the boy a fortnight, Zayn running on his own rules. It draws a quirk to his lips as he watches the protagonist of the story down his drink not ten metres away.

“You won’t believe the article he’s working on right now,” Simone is back to animated, preparing to serve some hot tea if her waggling eyebrows are anything to go by. “I coined the title myself: How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.”

 _That_ fully draws Liam’s attention, actually. His torso turns toward her. “ _What_?”

“I _know_ ,” Simone enthuses with a dropped jaw, straightens back up to continue, “He’s reporting on things to do to turn a guy off, and he’s actually started dating someone as a little experiment to see how they work.”

A punch to the gut, Liam is dizzy from the impact of Simone’s statement. 

After a moment he still can’t think properly, doesn’t know how best to react. Because underneath the cut of betrayal, it makes _sense_. All of it makes sense. And he could puke, is burning with the embarrassment and shame from the fact that a man he let so close to himself was most definitely playing him. Aiming to make a fool, dancing circles for the world to see.

Several therapeutic breaths are taken, but he keeps forgetting to inhale oxygen back into his lungs while Simone’s prattle is like an annoying, buzzing bee beside his ear. Despite, he knows his countenance is a statue. But on the inside he’s spinning, spin –

“How do you know Zayn, Liam?”

**

Niall and Andy find Zayn a handful of minutes after Winston parts way, which is unexpected, but not exactly unwelcome. Otherwise Zayn would be drinking alone in order to combat the nerves that have taken root regarding his analysis on his and Liam’s relationship. There’s a fifty-fifty chance that the darker wine he ordered will either calm him or send his mind to Mars, but – being already warm from two prior glasses – he’s willing to give it a shot.

He thinks he’s been quite patient for the hour Liam’s left him unattended, and though he’s more introverted, enjoyment isn’t found in feeling ostracized. So, again, Liam’s chums will serve just fine as entertainment.

“Hello, lads,” Zayn greets half-heartedly, meeting gaze with Niall but passing over Andy because apparently it’s never too late to be petty.

The blonde is jovial as always, proclaims “Zayner!” and plops himself down to Zayn’s right. His cheeks seems to glow a permanent rose.

Andy, on the other hand, plasters a smile that’s rather tight, and even when he sits down beside Niall he checks over his shoulder as if on lookout duty.

“Did Liam send you over here?” Zayn is honestly curious. If so, it means Liam realizes he’s been gone too long and likely feels guilty. If not, he can go back to moping.

“Nah, mate,” Niall speaks, “He’s been held up all night, has probably been trying to get back to you.”

Alright, then. Zayn nods, sips at his dry wine. He’s faced toward the stage, but as time has ticked on a few more guests have filtered into the dining area, which has given him added details to entertain his mind.

“Look, uh,” Niall continues, looks down at his folded hands, “I was wondering if you’ve spoken to two women. Both fit enough, work for Winston Advertising, kind of a package deal.”

“Stacy Steele and Delaney Pearson,” Andy supplies, tone urgent as he wrests his forearms on the table and stares Zayn down, “Pearson’s black and Steele’s, well –“

“Orange,” Niall chortles out a finish.

Zayn is at first confused by the back and forth, but when he realizes the two aren’t aiming to take the piss he actually digs into his memories, because there is _something_ rousing in the back of his mind.

And – _fuck_. The descriptions ring a bell because Zayn had been stunned by Steele’s complexion as well. He met the duo right after receiving his current assignment. Truly, all Zayn can think is _fuck_. Because Simone told the ladies about the article, and the two work at the same company as Liam. And Liam’s friends are in the preemptive phase of confronting him about them.

He feels like a jackass for not realizing the connection until now, feels as if the alcohol in his stomach might be working its way out.

There’s no way to escape, though, and he had to have known the secret couldn’t be kept forever. If he’s about to be found out he’d like to at least appear to retain some dignity, so he clears his throat as obscurely as possible, crosses his left ankle over his right knee. “What did they say?”

“ _Shit_ ,” Niall curses, makes a show of dropping his head into his palms.

Andy isn’t as careless, takes the reigns. “Look, Winston is about to come back over here, and we’d really appreciate it if you told him you didn’t know about the bet.”

Wait, _what_? Zayn wasn’t expecting – that. He wouldn’t call his assignment a ‘bet’, and why would Liam’s boss be pertinent to the situation? On the outside, still, he knows his face remains calm.

“Y’know,” Niall starts back, flicks his wrist as if to nudge Zayn, “Just tell him that you really do love Liam.”

Zayn’s heart palpitates at that, he thinks. If the lads know of his and Winston’s conversation, then that means the man told them. And if Winston is still unsure of Zayn’s feelings as to where he plans to come back to ask, that means he is being propositioned to do so.

“Alright. I completely understand,” Zayn says. He does not understand. But for the time being he’s cut off emotions from playing at his brain, is assuming a clinical viewpoint in hopes of getting caught up.

Having looked up again, Niall lets out an exhale at Zayn’s response. “Thanks, Zayno. This pitch means a lot to Liam.”

Mildly annoyed at the superfluous nicknames now that it seems they’re merely used for Niall to ease the situation, Zayn can feel irritation prickling at the nape of his neck. He clenches his teeth to ward it off. Squeezes the stem of his glass firmer.

“Yeah, mate,” Andy adds, quite friendlier than he’s been to Zayn, “Since you’re helping him win, he’ll probably gift you something for your efforts. That bracelet you’ve got on is nice. Is it Cartier?”

“You can probably star in a commercial he’ll set up for the Dilaurentis. Model looks,” Niall whistles with an eyebrow waggle whilst standing back up.

Zayn nods, offers a tight-lipped smile before gulping down the wine as dark as his vision. Red.

Thankfully, the boys pack it in and retreat without any more commentary, just cuffs to his shoulder, leaving Zayn to mull over the information they’ve so carelessly let slip.

A pretty clear, minimalistic painting is created in Zayn’s mind: Liam wants to head Winston Advertising’s Dilaurentis Diamonds campaign. There’s a running bet between Liam and his boss. His boss has to know whether or not Zayn is in love with Liam, and the answer being _yes_ would benefit Liam.

Zayn doesn’t try to configure where the two women come into play, has been sat at this damned table a night too long. And it’s _hot_.

The increased traffic into the dining area Zayn doesn’t notice until he stands up to go against the flow, squeezing through people and demandingly swiping yet another beverage from a server. The alcohol will raise his blood’s temperature to boiling, he knows, but bursting into flames and escaping this hellhole isn’t deemed the worst case scenario.

A bit out of nowhere a microphone makes its awful whining sound – likely because it’s turned on too close to speakers – and canary lighting dims. Zayn halts for a moment out of disorientation before picking up pace once more.

When a baritone voice makes itself known, though, Zayn can’t help but look towards the stage to place it. Ah, yes: Ben Winston.

Cursing himself, Zayn shakes his head to continue his beeline for the exit, ignores Winston’s opening until he shouts louder “Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Dilaurentis!” Spotlights come down, and the guests begin clapping.

Third time’s the charm, they say. Looking back over his shoulder _this_ time, Zayn is maddened to see Liam stood next to Mrs. Dilaurentis, front and center for everyone to applaud.

And fuck the chains he’s put on his emotions, actually. He feels used and betrayed, needs to let the excess hormones out. Turning to his right is an impulse, but the further down the wall he slinks to the stage spikes adrenaline, makes him think his half-formed, less-than-coherent plan is actually a good idea.

His rage is fueled the harder he stares at Liam, the longer Winston’s introduction for their ‘ _Oscar-, Grammy-, Tony-, and Emmy-award-winning_ ” musical guest goes. Zayn wouldn’t recognize the man even if he listened for the name, but, scrutinizing everyone else, it seems he shares that with few others.

But he’s getting off track.

His bright idea is to get on stage and somehow communicate that Liam Payne should screw himself. _How_ to phrase it he hasn’t decided, but the entertainer has walked into the light and by his piano, will surely begin talking or playing soon, so Zayn ascends the side steps on the platform, angles toward a microphone in its stand and brings it to his mouth just as he hits center stage.

“Yes, one more hand for our special talent of the night,” Zayn proclaims, slightly out of breath. “Such an honor.”

The claps pick up slower this round, people likely confused as to what’s going on. Luckily, he’s not eye-level with the seated guests, his eyes actually not quite adjusted to the stage lights yet. And – _oops_ – his wine glass is still in hand, and it’s almost scorching up here, and he’s losing his train of thought, his blood alcohol level definitely making itself known by fogging his head slightly.

But just as he begins thinking he’s made a mistake in coming on stage, his gaze falls on Liam. The only one in the audience standing, the man’s form is a bit harder to make out, but Zayn strains his eyes to view Liam’s expression: nearly blank, impossibly tired. A bit as if he’s seen death already and isn’t _afraid_ of what’s to come but is still dreading it.

Zayn would rather have Liam livid.

“A lot of you out there may not know Liam Payne. Well, I’m here to tell you you’re missing out,” he looks to a few people, confidence building in that they haven’t thrown him out yet. “Not only is he a talented advertising executive, an avid music and film connoisseur, and a _wagering_ champion,” he makes sure to stare at Liam, watches the realization hit the man’s face. Gradual shock, still tired. “But he’s _ruggedly_ handsome,” Zayn leans into the mic to make suggestive eyes at the first tables as if he’s letting them in on a secret.

A pause for people to laugh, one individual whistling. Security stood in the back aren’t making a damn move, and even the band behind him keeps mum, a few chuckles.

“Most importantly: tonight, he is one hell of a singer, and in honor of his new campaign with Dilaurentis Diamonds, he’s prepared a little musical show for his new friend Mrs. Dilaurentis.” Zayn leans back on his heel, exaggerates a smile as if he’s told of Liam donating his live savings to the classic ‘starving children in Africa’ that white folks at galas love to vow their support to.

Following Mrs. Dilaurentis lead, the rest of the crowd applauds heartily again. The woman tugs on Liam’s arm, is cooing up at him, but Liam is near glowering, jaw tight yet eyes rising from the dead as a vengeful zombie.

To finish, “So, guests, get ready for Liam Payne’s chosen rendition.” Zayn stays where he is, extends his drink toward Liam. There’s truly no instance in which he’d pass up the opportunity to watch the arsehole fumble on stage. “Come on up, _Champ_.”

Liam doesn’t falter on his way forward, though. He graciously begs Dilaurentis off, straightens needlessly his immaculate suit coat, fastens a smile fit for toothpaste commercials.

And Zayn’s left to wonder if the man is still playing his chosen role, smartened up nicely with the stature of a race horse. That is bound to earn affection, isn’t it? And yet there were times when vulnerability was seen on Liam’s face, heard in his voice, felt in the press of his fingertips. There’s little way in which that could have been for show.

Zayn has to wonder if those seemingly intimate moments were put upon as well. Wonders if Liam Payne is that talented of an actor or if he himself is just a horrid judge of character.

Even as Liam advances toward him, Zayn can feel this round of his anger cooling. Even as Liam halts in front of him for effect, palms the small of his back and pulls him into a hug, Zayn can hardly be annoyed by the pettiness. Even as Liam whispers to his ear, “You’re fucked, _How-To_ ,” Zayn inhales a lingering citrus and can only feel drained.

And, _ah_. Mr. Payne knows about the article after all. Well. That’s even, then.

Relief should likely be noted at some point, because at least now there’s nothing to hide. And shame will claw its way into his chest later. But right now Zayn is tired, and he thinks to bury himself in his empty flat under a chilled duvet until he can suppress all memories of the last two weeks of his life.

The audience is patient as Liam shakes hands with the stalled performer, but Zayn grows restless the longer he’s on elevated for everyone to see.

On second thought, he’s done his part in revenge by setting up Liam’s performance, so with the man pulling his phone out to whisper with the entertainer, and with the quiet that has overtaken the milieu, Zayn decides to split. He does it with finesse, though, steps forward slightly to give a bow and then pivots to pace calmly off the stage.

It’s when he’s again in the shadows, slunk as close to his right wall as possible that the floodgates of his emotions break. There’s a gasp – shock – that turns into a laugh – relief – that comes out choked, Zayn having to clamp a hand over his mouth to ward off a sob – shame. It’s all a bit overwhelming because Zayn doesn’t consider himself an emotional person, isn’t one to grow teary, so he doesn’t know quite how to hold himself. He aims for inconspicuous.

His goal is not obtained, apparently, because Liam spots him before he can exit the ballroom: “Don’t run off now, Zayn: the show hasn’t even started.”

Zayn ignores the man, steels his shoulders to continue to his exit and hopes that the spotlight won’t be trained on his get-away.

“Andy, Niall,” booms Liam, a certain tenacity thinly veiled by the sweetness of Liam’s tone, “Catch him for me. Don’t think he’d forgive himself if he were to miss this opportunity.”

The process of events is rapid, Liam’s cronies standing as a wall between Zayn and the outside world, Zayn – infuriated – spinning around to glower at the advertising executive, and the continuation of Liam’s spiel after a pause that’s apt for building tension.

“You see,” he quirks a smirk, a fire blazing behind darkened amber eyes, “this performance is much better as a duet, but my boyfriend has been much too modest to confirm his participation. Please, if you’d like to see his presence grace the stage once more, give him an encouraging hand.”

Liam Payne is quick and devious, certainly, and the crowd is rather foolish, Zayn is able to judge. At least he’s vaguely impressed by the former.

For his part, Niall whisper-shouts an apology before nudging Zayn back toward the platform as a blinding spotlight actually does land on the group, following Zayn as he pulls an abashed façade, which is not too far from how he currently feels.

“Very brave of him,” Liam acts an innocent sadist, offers his hand to the younger as he climbs back onto the stage.

Zayn almost smacks away the palm out of spite, but then he hopes that acting unbothered will hurt Liam more than expending a genuine emotion would. So he squeezes thick fingers as hard as he can. The sugar of Liam’s lips touches the back of Zayn’s hand, and he finds that it’s already turned acidic.

“One of your favorites, m’love,” the older beams toward the crowd, “Love Yourself by Justin Bieber.”

Zayn is tempted to break character at Liam’s reveal because it rivals his own pettiness. It’s a clouded memory, and Zayn can’t even recall where they were or what the grander picture was, but he does remember specifically droning on about how shitty the song is, how vindictive. 

Liam can’t be let win, though, so Zayn claps along with the crowd that is clearly wary of the situation now. Maybe because Justin Bieber is a bit too modernized and less refined for their taste. Likely because his and Liam’s interactions are so obviously impromptu and disorganized.

Regardless, the older trains his attention flickeringly on Zayn’s face, finds nothing to read, and then twists toward the entertainer with a nod, “Mr. Hamlish.”

The piano resounds immediately, Liam starting abruptly, and it’s awkward, but the man admittedly recovers well: “ _For all the times that you rain on my parade, and all the clubs you get in using my name_ –”

Zayn aims to ignore the whole production as best as possible, but then Liam locks eyes with him, and maybe the older truly _is_ that good of an actor with the way hurt plays on his outstretched arm yet malice in his jaw.

“ _You think you broke my heart. Oh, boy, for goodness’ sake. You think I’m crying on my own. Well, I ain’t_.”

And, well, the song fits a bit, doesn’t it? Zayn has to look away, can’t let himself sit on the lyrical meaning lest he crumble, consequently admitting defeat.

The other man must decide the message hits too close to home as well, because he turns to the audience for the rest, pitching beautifully through notes with a wide grin, the devil disguised as a girl scout selling laced Thin Mints.

Against his better judgment, Zayn wants to bop along to the tune, commend Liam for his voice and charisma. His presence is just so – _captivating_ – and there’s also an urge to run his hands over hunched shoulders, taught forearms. Claim. He’ll blame it on muscle memory.

The fact that any part of him wants to be with Liam still irritates Zayn, so he instead remains stoic as a statue, grows increasingly annoyed the longer the chorus draws out.

Finally, the second verse arrives, and Zayn knows he’s never been as relieved to hear the song thus far through.

“ _When you told me that you hated my friends_ ,” Liam is staring into Zayn’s soul again, the latter feels as if, and it’s so demeaning that it’s the last straw barring Zayn’s silence, “ _The only problem was with you and not them_.”

“Oh, please,” the scoffs into the mic, fuzzy backfeed as it knocks his chin, “One’s an arsehole: he had it coming.”

“– _my opinion was wrong_ ,” the older continues, ignores the commentary, “ _and tried to make me forget where I came from_ –“

“That’s not even applicable, Liam,” Zayn huffs, inconvenienced by the situation. He actually crosses his arms, cocks his hip, and scowls at his partner.

“– _wanna write a song ‘cause I didn’t want anyone thinking I still care. I don’t, but_ –“

“Obviously you do since you dragged me on stage,” is meant to deride, but it sounds more bored.

“ _I’ve been moving on, and I think you should be something I don’t wanna hold back. Maybe you should know that_ –” Liam’s jaw has loosened to allow a sneer, and he looks like a dick, as if he thinks Zayn is burning down. 

Naturally, Zayn doesn’t take well to that. “ _Your mum loves me, hasn’t met anyone else_ ,” He busts out, seamlessly hitting key and overpowering Liam’s line.

“ _And I never like to admit that I was wrong_ ,” the man appears staggered mostly by the other’s effort, recovers easily only to be cut off again.

“ _And you’ve been too caught up in your_ bet _to see what’s going on_.”

“ _But now I know I’m better sleeping on my own ‘cause if you like the way you look that much_ –” Liam flows with the repartee, anger triumphing over cockiness.

“You _made_ me wear this, dick,” Zayn is back to ripostes, is a bit breathless after two lines. In a good way, though, epinephrine drowning out what pains him to be standing on stage doing – _this_.

“– _and love yourself. And if you think that I’m still holding on to something, you should go and love yourself_.” 

When the instrumental hits, Liam is sweeping arms and swaying hips. Zayn reluctantly focuses on the audience while Liam garners claps and hoots from their spectators, obviously knowledgeable in working a crowd. Overall, it seems in fine spirit.

It’s easiest to pick out the people he’s familiar with, of course. Andy and Niall seem to be making a grand effort not to make themselves known, heads down and shoulders hunched. Mrs. Dilaurentis is most visibly entertained by the performance, likely not realizing it’s an agitated homicide as she shimmies and claps gayly. Ben Winston, sat to the left of Dilaurentis, hardly looks bothered. There’s nervousness in the flicker of his gaze, maybe, but that’s it, which is quite sickening considering he’s been a major catalyst of the present disaster.

There’s a realization that the back of Zayn’s neck is dripping sweat, and he doesn’t know if it’s more due to the heat of stage lights or his body working overdrive to keep him in front of everyone making a fool of himself, Liam, and the whole event. 

_Ridiculous_ is a word hissed in Zayn’s mind. It’s utterly ridiculous that two professional men are allowing trifling emotions to cloud their judgment – especially in regard to what’s best for their given careers. Atrocious that both set out to improve their vocational rankings yet have found themselves potentially destroying the very footings they’ve built.

So, on a professional level, Zayn can appreciate Liam’s drive to grow, improve. On a relational level, betrayal is prominent. And on an intimate level, well. The fact that he’s given himself so fully to the man, and given that he did it only after committing himself to the truth of what their relationship was – or, what he _thought_ it was shaping to be, Zayn is wrathful.

Honing back in on the other man as the final verse kicks off, letting “ _For all the times that you made me feel small_ ” breeze past him to lock eyes with Liam, Zayn figures there’s nothing else to be but truthful: “ _I fell in love now I feel nothing at all. I never felt so low when I was vulnerable. Was I a fool to let you break down my walls_?”

There’s a hint of dramatics behind his hand motions, his voice belting incredibly, but Zayn makes sure not to stray from Liam’s eyes, continues, “ _Cause if you think that you’re the better man, then, baby, you can go and fuck yourself. And if you think that I’m still holding on to nothing, you should go and fuck yourself_.” Zayn sets his finale up with a riff, palm to his abdomen and neck arched.

As the note dies out, he pelts the mic at Liam’s chest. Then he promptly jogs off stage, swivels through rounded dining tables toward the exit.

Behind them there’s an ensuing ruckus, Liam deriding, “There he goes, Ladies and Gents; that is Zayn Malik fleeing the building.”

It’s a bit disorienting for Zayn when the chilled night air smacks his cheeks, especially since he has to adjust to abrupt dimming of light as well. He doesn’t slow down until he’s descended the stairs, hunches forward and drags in burning oxygen. He can’t quite get a grip.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” is bellowed from behind Zayn, “I’m not done with you yet.”

Either Zayn can continue running or he can face Liam’s wrath. Liam was his ride, and he doesn’t think the driver will be back for another hour yet, but he’s sure taxis can be hailed if he walks just a street down. He focuses on the fountain in front of him. It’s not giving him any blatant directives.

Zayn turns around, and he’s taken aback with the blow to his chest at seeing the other man angry. Red cheeks, prominent jaw, bulging vein. “I think each piece has been said,” is spit out slowly.

“What the _hell_ was that, Zayn?” Liam slices his hands through the air, other hand on his waist, suit coat wrinkling. “You do realize that your _boss_ was there, right?”

Another pang in his chest, and he has to actually step back. Still calculating, begging for answers, half of Zayn’s brain is relieved to know how Liam found out about the article. But the other half… he gives a derisive snort, and his mouth screw up uncomfortably. “’m glad work is of unwavering importance to you, Liam.”

Emotions flicker across Liam’s face, and Zayn is too worn to determine each one. The older shakes his head, though, looks down to his feet before directing his hand toward Zayn, anger slightly subdued. His actions have caught up to him, and he’s breathing heavier. “Don’t act all high and mighty. You’ve put me through hell for a goddamn magazine article, so, yeah, I figured threatening your career might actually penetrate your thick skull.”

To Liam’s back there are people jogging down the stairs, and there’s a plunging dread in Zayn’s stomach that he might get arrested for God knows what. Their conversation needs to wrap up. “I decorated your room and embarrassed you in front of your little friends; so-fucking- _what_ , Liam? It was harmless, and I’m sure you’ll even be able to look back on it and use me for a laugh.” Zayn breaks off, jerks his head to the right to try and catch his breath, relies on the brightness of a street light to quell angry tears even as the lump in his throat baits more. “But what _you_ did is sickening. I messed with your head to complete an assignment, but you played with my heart to get ahead in your career.”

Wretched frustration draws Liam’s brows fluffy, purses his mouth and wars in his eyes. “Zayn,” he tries, voice soft and grating, “it’s not like that –“

The horde coming toward them drowns out Liam’s volley, and it’s another punch to Zayn’s gut of an entirely different caliber – fear – when a security agent steps between them. “Hand over the Aria.”

“Sorry?” Zayn tries. _What_ –?

“The earrings,” someone clarifies, a jeweler who attended Zayn earlier peeks out from the posse. “You’re wearing our diamonds.”

The fist unclenches in Zayn’s stomach as he fumbles to take out his accessories. This, at least, he can fix. He hands the bracelet off to Cartier’s representatives and the nose stud off to its’, and then the guests leave them be, head back inside to a situation Liam will be left to settle. 

The night is eerily silent, chilly.

“Look,” Zayn aims for the final word, tries to stuff his hands in his pockets with the resolve he’s mustered before realizing that he has none. “I made you the butt of a joke for two weeks. You _won_ , and you can move on, blame it on the crazy bastard that thinks he can write.”

“Zayn –” the man tries again, a pleading note.

“I’ll be the butt of a joke for your whole lifetime. The poor sod you got to catch feelings.” He chokes a laugh, has to curl his fingers tight, fights with himself to actually look the other man in the face. “But I can’t blame anyone else, Payne. It’s my own fault.” Another pause, tone dragging harsher: “So I hope you’ll forgive me for ruining your celebratory party.”

Abruptly, Zayn pivots, begins stalking off in hopes of catching a cab. The bravado falls as soon as his back is turned, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from doing anything stupid.

“So that’s it, then?” Liam asks, but it sounds definite rather than inquisitive. “You don’t care to hear my side of the story?”

Painstakingly, Zayn twists back around, the few metres between them doing wonders to help Zayn hold his ground. “I’m sure you’re a decent lad, Payne, but I’m afraid I don’t share your twisted sense of humor, and I’m done playing your games.”

Liam’s features have set themselves blank. Evenly, “We have something, Zayn. We could be something. You know it, and I know it. But if you walk away, we’ll be losing this relationship. How does anyone come out on top in that situation?”

Surprisingly, the confirmation that Liam cared for him in at least some capacity only causes Zayn to ache more, a dull throb in his chest. And it’s hard to swallow. All they’ve done is tear each other down, and it’s nowhere near healthy. So someone has to take one for the team lest they continue to ruin themselves.

Zayn lifts his right foot, places it behind him. Does it as well with the left. “I guess my article does.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two weeks later

| _Monday_ |

Simone’s office walls are banana yellow now. Too creamy for Zayn’s taste, too boring. But maybe it’s meant to soothe. He’s sat on a cedar-colored cube that he imagines would be more useful as a footrest. But it goes with Simone’s monochromatic, geometric brown theme. So.

His boss has spent the first five minutes of their meeting on her phone by the window, flailing hands and sharp consonants. When she does greet him it’s with a sunny disposition, possibly put-on. “I’m going to try to keep this short, Zayn,” she smooths her pencil skirt before sitting behind her desk. “I’ve been thinking about your article.”

That doesn’t give Zayn much to go off of. Whether she’s decided to approve or disapprove doesn’t much matter. One, because Prestige’s June issue is already in markets, with vendors, shipped to subscribers. Second, because Zayn decided at two in the morning two weeks ago that anyone else’s opinions regarding the piece shouldn’t be fretted over. Because the article is for no one but himself.

And Liam. If the man so chooses to read it. 

After a bout of silence and thus finding that she’s not going to get a charged response, Simone continues: “It’s quite different than what you’ve written before…” Another pause that the woman likely wishes would be filled with a drumroll. “But I love it,” she breaks into a wide grin.

Crickets. “Thank you, Simone,” he nods his head, gives a thin-lipped smile. It is pleasing on some level, after all, to hear that something you take pride in is appreciated.

“It was fresh and passionate. A new level to your work, Zayn,” she continues to beam, fingers clasped on top of her desk. “And that’s why I have a proposal for you.”

 _Whoomp_ there it is. Zayn hardly holds in a sigh, can’t help his nostrils flaring as they express annoyance. “Simone, I gave you my two-week notice already. I’m not even a technical employee as we speak.”

The woman flutters her hand about, exhales vacuously to toss her hair over her shoulder. “You said yourself that you’re only leaving in order to write the stories you want to write, and I’m prepared to enable just that.”

Well, that’s certainly something. Zayn settles into his seat more fully so as to entertain the notion if nothing else. “Anything?”

“Anything!” Simone stresses, looks as if she can’t contain her excitement with the way her eyes threaten to pop out of their sockets.

“So, religion? Politics? Literature?” He lowers his brow, tilts his head, hands on his knees, “Social issues?”

Simone glances down, pushes at her desk as she stands up, but Zayn is able to see her grimace. “I was thinking more of a celebrity gossip angle. Blind leads, maybe,” Simone gives a musing tone, is walking her way back to the window. “People would send in information, you’d do your best to verify it, and then you could create an article about it. The leads could be about anything.”

Right. Zayn didn’t expect much, and yet somehow he is still disappointed. He shakes his head, rises from his seat. “Thank you for the opportunity, Simone,” he begins.

The woman turns back towards him with an easy smile, likely prepared to rage on, beg further applause for her genius.

“And thank you for making it so easy to turn down.”

| _Tuesday_ |

“I’m just saying,” Harry’s volume grows as he comes back from the kitchen with some sort of cheap, dark wine, “that McGee reminds me of George from _Grey’s_.”

The scene has Zayn thinking of a _How-To_ he did last year on choosing the right drink for different t.v. show genres. Not altogether a bad memory: that article had been fun. 

“Well they’re both meant to be the little brother archetype. Baby-faced, a bit chubby,” Zayn offers supportively. He hasn’t voluntarily watched _Grey’s Anatomy_ despite the countless time Harry’s told him to, but he’s seen enough of it to put a face to the name.

Harry plops back down on the couch to Zayn’s left, unpauses _NCIS_ before tilting the wine bottle.

Zayn rolls his eyes amusedly, stretches out his goblet and makes sure Harry doesn’t create a mess while pouring.

The first half of the episode has been interesting enough so far, and Zayn will admit that it’s because the setting is similar to the novel he’s finally started. Which reminds him: “I’ve got a book you should read. It’s a crime thriller, but there’s subplots of romance.”

Unamused is Harry’s face. “The last time you recommended a book it turned out to be a hell of a lot like _Saw_.”

Which, true. “I promise, Haz, this one isn’t near as gory. The characterization is complex, and I’m sure you’ll love trying to figure out who the killer is.” Zayn waits a few seconds, adds with a smirk, “Plus, there are a few sex scenes, which I know you like.”

Harry pointedly ignores Zayn, but the latter can see fresh color to his cheeks. He’s likely trying to suppress the memory of Zayn stumbling over his gay erotica stash a few months back.

A sharp cackle is barely held in by Zayn. He won’t tease his mate further because he knows Harry will read the story. And the fact makes Zayn quite chuffed as he’s successfully drug someone else into the insanity that the book has held him in. Sadistic, maybe, but.

There’s a knock at Harry’s door, and Zayn knows the blush won’t be draining from Harry’s cheeks anytime soon.

“That’s Louis with the pasta,” Harry announces needlessly as he trips over a throw on his way to the door. It’s not as if anyone else is expected. Besides, he’s been bringing up the editor in conversation every five minutes.

It would be vaguely cute if Zayn hasn’t been incidentally _not_ thinking about Louis. And the fact that Zayn hasn’t been at Prestige’s building lately has helped him along in that department, apparently, if Harry’s anecdotes of _’Louis dropping by for this’_ and _’Louis bringing that’_ are anything to judge by.

Not that Zayn is explicitly angry with Louis, but, well – he has his suspicions of the man’s involvement with Liam’s bet. And it’s definitely still a touchy subject, so Zayn more or less avoids Louis’s eye when he barges into the flat.

Impromptu, as always, “I’ve brought the first season of _Gossip Girl_!” he declares.

Harry commends him loudly, blabbers on at a tempo that’s unusually quick as he escorts Louis the two feet from the entrance to his beat-up sofa.

It’s going to be a horridly long night.

——

“Look, Zaynie,” Louis garbles from his spot beside Harry, leaning over and getting caught in the lankier boy’s limbs.

The third episode of _Gossip Girl_ has almost run its course, and Harry and Louis have been shamelessly flirting all night, scooting closer and closer. They’re also near sloshed out of their minds, Zayn only on his second glass of wine. Rich, slightly sweet. It leaves a lovely stain on his glass every time it swirls around.

Zayn’s also grown accustomed to looking Louis in the eye again. Not that it’s an intimidating notion when the lad is giggling most of the time, fawning over Chuck Bass too religiously to keep his gaze set on Zayn.

“Yes?” Zayn answers, prepares himself for either a knock-knock or bar joke.

“I’ve got something to tell you.”

Likely the bar, then. Zayn keeps his focus on the telli. He prefers Rufus over Chuck, actually. “Alright.”

“I knew about Liam’s bet,” comes out clearer and more enunciated than anything else Louis has spoken all night.

And, well. Zayn was expecting it eventually. Still, he feels the hairs rise on the back of his neck, and there’s a chill shocked to his system despite the fluffy blanket he’s under. He takes merely a tiny sip of his drink. He’d hate for the subject to induce alcoholism, after all. And it’s also the last of the wine left, so he figures he should ration. “I deduced.”

“You _douche_?” Harry intones inquisitively, no tease. His jaw is dropped open.

Given that the man truly seems confused, Zayn has had no greater indication than now that Harry is a fixed Top.

“ _Shh_ ,” Louis hisses at his love interest, slaps a palm over Harry’s mouth, “I’m laying my heart out, here.”

Zayn braves connected gaze. Maybe if he confronts the issue head-on it will be less messy to move past. (Mostly he doesn’t picture himself getting out of this too easily.) “Continue.”

Eyes that reflect the light of the t.v., left profile washed a flickering blue. Louis licks his lips, ducks his head probably to arrange syntax. “I was there at Funky Buddha the night you two met. Liam planned to run against his two colleagues for point man on the Dilaurentis campaign, and I was there for moral support.”

Zayn gives a dubious look on ‘ _moral support_ ’ if only to lighten the atmosphere, remains silent otherwise.

“Oi, are you quite finished?” Louis manages to roll his eyes, but Zayn knows there’s no heat. “Anyway, one thing led to another, and the ladies were wagering against him. If he could prove to be a hit with men, they said, then they would back off the case.”

He looks again to Zayn to gauge the energy. “Those two are wicked, I promise. Their whole leeway was seamless, and I figured they were too ignorant to realize that Liam is a siren call for queer men, so I backed Liam up to take the offer. In hindsight, I’m guessing they spotted you and came up with the plan on the spot. Again, wicked. Admirable, even, if they weren’t such bitches.”

Oh. So that’s where the women come into play. Zayn offers a snort in assent, but, honestly, he’s more stuck on Louis’s ‘siren call’ reference. Not only because it’s impressive that Louis could come up with that in any state of mind, but also because it’s true.

He quickly jerks away from those thoughts. Thinking of Liam in that way hasn’t been beneficial thus far since they’ve – er – broken up. Or at all, as it’s been.

“Why didn’t you tell me once everything was set into motion?” Zayn asks. His voice doesn’t crack, but it’s softer than he would like, fragile. Pleading.

Louis winces. Maybe the tone is obvious. “I was too stunned at first. Steele picked you out and Liam shook her hand before I could put two and two together. And after,” he trails off, looks to the telly and accepts a palm to the bicep from Harry as if _he’s_ the one that should be distraught. “I couldn’t just pick between you who to tell. The only option would have been to tell both of you, but both of you are too noble to have cheated your way through the game.”

The answer is decent. As much as Zayn would like to think he and Liam would have formed a symbiotic relationship in telling each other of their intentions, after all, Zayn knows it wouldn’t have worked out all sunshine and daisies. Zayn would not have had proper experience to write a flourished article, and, having a sense of who Liam is, Zayn doesn’t think the older man would fully enjoy his victory if it were ill-gotten.

Despite the fact that Zayn _knows_ this, the hollowness in his stomach and ache in his chest are persistent. As they have been for the past two weeks. And when he’d caught himself thinking of the pets or remembering that he had no plans for the evening, intellectual reasoning didn’t go a long way. Even phoning his mum a few nights ago was rough because her mothering aura reminded him of Karen. Who he surely has disappointed.

“Okay,” he intones. He thinks that he’s owed a bit more explanation, but. Maybe he should just accept that shit happens. Karma and all.

“Look,” Louis jumps before Zayn can go back to pretending to watch _Gossip Girl_ , “I want to tell you something, but I don’t want it to upset you.”

Zayn scoffs good-naturedly. His hair hasn’t seen product in days, he’s got sweater paws going, and tissue would definitely be handy right now. “Fat chance, bud.”

The other doesn’t even laugh, and _that_ definitely scares Zayn a bit.

“The main reason I let it happen is because I thought it would be good for you two.”

Louis thwarts a nasty look from Zayn. 

“Let me explain. I know both of you, right? I know you work your arse off at a job you don’t enjoy, and I know Liam doesn’t think as much of himself as he should. I figured you two might click, that you would come to terms with how ridiculous your work is and that Liam would be pushed toward recognizing his full worth. I figured you wouldn’t stand for Liam realizing anything less, Zayn, because you’re like that. You provide the utmost best for those you care about.”

Well, Zayn sure as hell has admitted how discordant Prestige’s values are compared to his own. But, he turns from Louis, takes in a deep breath to curl his fingers under his sweater. Ignores the last bit of Louis’s monologue. Tries to curb intense emotion. “He made a bet with his buddies that he could make me fall in love with him so that he could steal a case from his colleagues.” Zayn methodically uncrosses his leg, pushes his blanket off. Something is building in his chest, and it’s hot, and he has to get away. Gritting teeth, “Maybe his self-worth is right on point.”

“ _Zayn_ ,” Louis stresses, sits up taller to try and remain level with his converser. “You know it’s not as simple as that. You should talk to him.”

The writer’s feet are shoved into his beat up _Air Force 1_ s, hand on the doorknob as tension heightens. “I put myself out there, Louis. I told Liam how I felt, and he didn’t do the same. So I walked away, and he made it pretty clear that we’re done.”

“Wait –” Louis continues to plead, fumbles around as if making to stand.

Zayn’s already out the door.

| _Wednesday_ | 

“… _Who needs men? Ladies_ , frost yourselves…”

“Cut! Very nice. Let’s go one more time,” The director declares towards the front of the room.

Liam watches the commercial run through the screen to his left so that he can see how the digital effects play out. Two men are meant to stand either side of Mrs. Dilaurentis when the scene begins, but when she shoos them off they dissolve into diamonds of light floating up.

Gone is Mrs. Dilaurentis’ red hair and in is her natural brunette, sleek black dress accessorized with a white fur shawl and hat. The 84-carat yellow diamond necklace is made to pop, and Dilaurentis looks to be standing on a petite bridge, a New York nightline their backdrop.

It’s a beautiful shot. Short and simple, yes, but Liam is tremendously pleased. He’s never had such an intimidating project, and now the heavy pressure is all but lifted. 

He’d like to continue up with at least two more advertisements. He has had this vision for a while of an NFL player being in the commercial, showing off his Super Bowl ring one moment and then switching the scene to him proposing to his boyfriend. But being openly queer in the sport entertainment world is not exactly encouraged, so Liam doesn’t think he’d be able to find anyone whose reps would allow them to partake in such a commercial.

It’s… fucking frustrating, mostly. But Liam is not a professional athlete, and he can’t change societal norms with the snap of his fingers. He can only think of the positives. After all, that commercial is in the future, and any competent actor will do swimmingly. Hell, he might jump in there himself, have a twink propose to him to combat the stereotype that the bigger, more rugged partner has to be the manlier in the relationship.

But he’s again getting ahead of himself. What’s most important is that, currently, those involved with his campaign are happy. The Dilaurentis are happy, and the crew is happy, and everyone. Is. Happy.

(Liam will have to beg the honest, professional opinion from Andy about the commercial one more time. Just to be safe.)

The scene is just about to run again, crew members scurrying around and Dilaurentis looking almost annoyed when Louis makes an appearance, waltzes through the chaos and over to Liam to stand with him at the back of the room. As always, he makes scruffy work, but there’s a lack of pep in his step as well as irritated eyes.

Liam nods to the editor, crosses his right arm over his chest to rest his left elbow on it, fist to his mouth as if he’s deep in concentration. It’s not that he’s uncomfortable around Louis, but, well.

The man had been honest, at least, when he let Liam know of his involvement in the altercation with Zayn. He gave his reasoning for letting both of them flop around like fish out of water for ten days straight, and it made sense.

But Liam would still prefer to not be around Louis right now.

“Looking good, Li,” the man crosses his arms as well, side-eyes Liam and whistles, “You’re on your way to producing feature films, I’d say.”

A dry chuckle scratches out of Liam’s throat, which was likely Louis’s goal. The man’s voice is scratchy, and Liam assumes he’s either off of a bender or a round of crying. “Skiving?”

“Nah,” Louis answers, “late lunch. I’ve got Chinese if you want it.”

“No thanks, man.” Liam hasn’t really been hungry lately. Workout, work, workout, sleep. Rinse, repeat. Plus, “Why are you here, Louis?”

The editor doesn’t put up a front, shoulders dropping as he shoves his hands in his slacks, a wince. “I know I messed up, and I want to fix it. Or at least try.” He seems to test each word on his tongue before letting them slip.

Dilaurentis starts the scene again, saunters onto the bridge and rests in the middle as two dapper young men come to flank her.

Stiffness affects Liam’s spine, the busyness in front of him failing to distract from the conversation that Louis wants to have. Peeved is quite a bit easier to maintain in public than despondent, so he goes with it, swipes his palm over his jaw.

“Look, you’re one of my best mates, and I’m trying to be honest here, alright? You fessed up, and I thank you for that. You explained your situation, and I get it. But I still need some time to get past this, Louis.” Liam draws in a heavy breath, drops his lids for a few seconds. In a weaker voice, “There’s nothing more that can be fixed.”

Louis moves a pace forward, turns toward Liam so that the executive can’t easily continue to avoid his eye. There’s something hidden behind Louis’s back that Liam didn’t take note of before, but he’s not sure if he cares to know what it is.

“I think you should talk to Zayn,” the older blurts out, rolls onto the balls of his feet but steels his jaw.

Liam drops his chin, closes his eyes. As if he hasn’t thought of that. As if he hasn’t played through a hundred variations of said non-existent conversation. As if he doesn’t wish he could’ve stopped Zayn from walking away. But his wishes are useless, because someone like that doesn’t hand out second chances.

Raising his head again, Liam wonders if he looks as weary as he feels. “We _did_ speak, Louis, and Zayn’s right: I fucked him over worse than he did me. We both have to live with what we did, and I don’t need to be coddled.”

“ _Liam_ ,” the other snips, bouncing up on his toes as if preparing to tackle Liam if he makes a run for it. “It’s not as if you held malicious intent, and we both know nothing about your relationship with Zayn was about the bet. If you thought you were manipulating him you wouldn’t have brought him to the party. If you didn’t reciprocate his feelings then you wouldn’t have continued seeing him.”

‘ _Reciprocate his feelings_.’ 

Liam’s molars press together, another heavy inhale through clenched teeth. He’s fully prepared to strong-arm Louis if it means escaping these thoughts, mourning his own stupidity, but he instead finds himself blabbering, “If I could go back and turn time, Louis, I would do my absolute best to display my affections, be the person Zayn ought to have.” He glances up, throat constricting. “But I can’t, and it’s over.”

“ _Liam_!” the editor berates again, flaps his arms ridiculously and nearly stomps his foot, a – magazine? – fluttering in the wake, “Please try not to act like an absolute dolt right now; you’re not.”

The insult actually has Liam’s open wounds festering a bit, lower lip jutting out as his brows pull together.

Louis continues before Liam can voice anything: “Zayn was hurt, alright? He wasn’t thinking rationally, and his instincts told him to defend himself, strike back. I know Zayn. He’s well on his way to actually believing the sun shines out of your fucking arse, and he loves loudly. _Think_ , Liam. Actually allow yourself to consider the possibility that you’re worthy of a decent relationship, and I know you’ll find times when Zayn let you know exactly how he felt.”

Flabbergasted, Liam can only stare at his friend. Colleagues and near strangers are likely throwing stink eyes their way due to Louis’s decibel level and stomping feet, pointing hands, but Liam is too overwhelmed to be embarrassed.

The other man rolls his head on his shoulder slightly, tugs on the lapels of his suit jacket to straighten himself back out. Quieter, possibly a bit defeated, Louis finishes, “I can’t convince you, but I’m hoping the time you spent with Zayn will.”

Liam sniffs, clears his throat and sweeps his gaze around the room. The conversation is done, then, but he won’t allow himself to overanalyze what’s been said until he’s at home in his bed trying not to remember how a Captain America quilt found itself at his feet. “Alright.”

A flick of cerulean irises to Liam’s face, Louis tilts his head, steps forward calculatedly. “You should read this,” is all he says as the magazine is offered to Liam.

What will be found Liam already knows. He gingerly takes the publication, willpower funneled on not allowing a peek at it. Later his resolve will run out, but for now, he nods again to Louis.

 _Later_ turns out to be as soon as Louis is gone, and Liam punishes himself for his lack of strength by making sure to stop on random sections, check out a perfume sample. When he lands on the correct page he makes a last ditch effort to control himself, flips one page back to view the product being sold by a Hadid. Imagining Zayn’s upper lip curled in disgust at having his work rest beside someone like that draws a genuine smile to Liam’s lips.

Still, his heart thumps erratically as he settles on the man’s full spread. The page is white, a cartoon broken heart taking up a good portion of the backdrop. The title is enlarged in hot pink font, and quotes are bolded throughout with lime green highlight.

> **HOW TO: Lose a Guy in 10 Days**  
>  By Z. J. Malik
> 
> **Lost a guy and don’t know why? What went wrong?**  
>  _A month ago, guided by M. Alexander and J Long’s_ Universal Don’ts of Dating _, I set out to commit certain silly dating faux pas set up for women everywhere. What I didn’t realize was that I was making the biggest mistake of all…_

  
Sometime Liam swears himself to reading the whole thing, but in the moment the highlighted quotes are begging to be looked over first.  
  


> ” **Faking a personality in order to date someone won’t ultimately lead to happiness or healthiness.** _Every day that passed in my relationship I gained more stress and less sleep. Coming up with new ways to Fake It was an uphill battle, and I only felt worse the higher I climbed._ ”

  


> “ **Cliché as it sounds, ladies: BE YOURSELF.** _Despite the annoying characteristics that shone, my guy stuck around for all the little genuine quirks that naturally revealed themselves_.”

  
It’s interesting being able to see their time together through the other man’s eyes. Some references he picks up right away, and, from at least one perspective, Liam concedes that some of the shit Zayn pulled was funny. Like the blowup of Zayn’s head on a shower curtain and the tacky, matching attire. Further, it’s comforting to know that the boy isn’t heartless, that some moves that seemed so forbidding were not pleasant for Zayn to carry out.

But Liam’s heart also heavies at the palpable grief in Zayn’s divulgences, and he wants nothing more than to comfort the other, let him know that forgiveness is being worked towards.

On the last bolded line, Liam’s heart palpitates. Chills run over his body, and he holds his breath to reread the closing. Just to make sure it wasn’t misread. To soak in the meaning behind the words.

After a few moments Liam closes the magazine, _knows_ he shouldn’t dwell on the article. But there’s a kick in his system now – something he can’t blame on caffeine or nicotine. One minute passes in what feels like five, Liam flicking his eyes to his wristwatch to escape the commercial acting that has turned monotonous.

It’s almost three o’clock, and he’s been at this since seven. No one’s come to hash out logistics relevant to business affairs at all today, and Liam knows that tomorrow will only be a group of people watching the final cut of the commercial over until their eyes bleed. He’s not needed any longer today.

And his mind keeps going back to the damned article. The last line. And there’s a knot in his stomach he doesn’t think will untangle until he spills himself to Zayn.

Because Zayn poured his heart out in print for anyone and everyone to read, and Liam couldn’t utter _anything_ of value the last time they saw each other. When he watched Zayn walk away, pulsating heart on his sleeve.

Actually putting one foot in front of the other to go find Zayn is terrifying, but also exhilarating once he’s out of his building, straddling his bike.

For good measure, and just so he doesn’t chicken out and make a detour before arriving at Prestige, Liam flips to Zayn’s article and reads the last line over again.  


> “ ** _I ended up pushing away the one man that I believe could have been the love of my life._** ”

  
——

In hindsight, Liam probably should have put more thought into how he would go about navigating Prestige’s building. It’s rather large, and the first floor is the obvious place to search given that there are cubicles, but there’s upper levels as well, and –

Liam inhales deeply and stands taller. He’s only just walked through the revolving door, and losing it now won’t do him a lick of good. 

So he reevaluates the floor plan. It’s set up rather chic, he has to say, a foyer taking up a fourth of the space to the left and work stations to his right. A landing runs along the far wall, which gives the illusion of taller ceilings, and bright colors accent the furnishings every so often in chairs and flower vases. Optimal for sunlight and positive energy.

He’s been stationary too long, and it only deepens the feeling that he’s out of place, far from his element. No one pays him any mind, though, sleek heels and gelled hair running about with coffees or papers.

Another therapeutic breath, and Liam’s coming to find that they don’t actually do much. Even so, he moves forward, begins down one row of cubicles and prays to the heavens that no one calls him out.

The bravado that pushed him to ditch in the middle of shooting his own commercial to rather hunt down his past relationship has diminished significantly, obviously. But remembering why he’s here, going back over Zayn’s words and imagining the boy’s face builds him back up.

‘… _could have been the love of my life._ ’

Liam grips the Prestige issue tighter, peels his eye for blonde hair as he peruses the field of journalists. What catches his attention is a bouquet of multi-colored roses, dead in the afternoon sunlight on a desk up against the front wall, far right. No one is in the cubicle, that much is obvious, but it’s also – bare? The wall is clear as well as the desk, no clutter, no personal touches, not even any files.

But the flowers are definitely the ones that Liam sent Zayn a month ago, so… _where’s Zayn_?

Offhandedly, Liam is thrilled that his gift was cherished enough for Zayn to show it off to anybody that might see. Further, he wonders what’s been made of the bumblebee stuffie that is nowhere to be seen. Which brings him back to the matter that should be dealt with first.

Twisting about, Liam decides his best bet is to ask the chatterboxes two cubicles over if they know what’s happened. A lanky lad with long hair is leaning on a desk beside a cute woman who’s browsing on her computer. Almost simultaneously they look up once Liam graces their presence, the man’s countenance like a deer caught in headlights as his conversation meets an abrupt end. A few seconds later the girl’s features morph blank as if she’s trying to veil her thoughts, and Liam figures he’s found the right duo.

There’s something familiar about the man, and Liam’s sure it will drive him crazy until he figures out what, but he pushes that to the back of his mind.

“Can you tell me where Zayn Malik is?” is initiated swiftly, Liam switching more weight onto his left leg to appear casual.

“Well,” the girl starts, flickers her eyes up to her companion only to find that he’s turned away from them, acting busy on a notepad. “He actually is taking a vacation right now,” her voice is calm but there’s an underlying quake. Like she’s trying not to enrage a wild animal.

“A vacation?” Liam sounds dubious to his own ears. A vacation often needs to be planned a good amount of time in advance, and he’s sure Zayn would have mentioned it when they were seeing each other.

She again eyes the other man, sends him a glare that he’s obviously pretending not to notice. “To England.”

Oh. That makes sense. Zayn had been missing his family quite a bit, so Liam assumes that he went to see them. But, “Where’s all his stuff? That’s his desk, yes?” he points to said area with the rolled up magazine.

“Er –” the girl tries, growing more uncomfortable by the second.

And Liam truly doesn’t have time for this. “Look,” he breaks in, works to pull his features into repentance, “I need to talk to him. I owe him an explanation.”

This time her mouth falls into a frown, a divot between her brows. She crosses her knees, leverages her hands on her seat to sit up straighter. “It was, yes. He actually quit about two weeks ago.”

Liam feels like he’s been struck, the words not actually making sense in his head. He shifts from foot to foot. “Quit?”

“Yes. He went to stay with his family for a while, but he’s been looking for a new job. I think he’s got a few interviews lined up around England.”

He might fall nauseous. Attempting to swallow around the dryness in his throat is all Liam can do, fingers flexing tighter around the damned magazine. “When did he leave?”

“Well,” the girl titters, angles toward her desktop to squint at the bottom corner. Maybe she should look into glasses. “He actually hasn’t caught his plane yet. It leaves tonight around 7:00, but I’m sure you know how they are with international flights.” She shrugs not unkindly.

3:20pm reads Liam’s Rolex, and there’s a renewed vibrancy in Liam’s speech. “So he should be getting to the airport soon, then?”

His interlocutor doesn’t seem to pick up on Liam’s urgent demeanor, laughs a bit before replying, “Ideally, yes, but being late is one of his more obstinate qualities, so.”

Liam chuckles with little mirth. He hadn’t actually learned that fact. “JFK?”

“Right,” she nods, is able to see that the discussion is coming to its close.

“Alright, thank you,” Liam imparts a bit distractedly, has leaned to his left slightly in effort to scratch the itch that is telling him he knows the mute man.

Said bloke glances over his shoulder due to the awkward silence that’s filled their area, catches Liam’s eye before quickly turning his face again.

But it’s too late, and Liam’s subconscious is satisfied. He tries to play it cool, not appear peevish even though he feels he has a right to be. “You’re not a therapist, are you, Edward?”

The man slowly pivots to face Liam, features verifiably sheepish. “Er, ‘fraid not.”

Liam allows his brows to draw down, lips puckering as he nods his head. “Of course not.” Without further ado, he makes to leave, but at the last second he remembers something and has to step into the cubicle again: “I’d like my three hundred dollars back.”

Instead of remaining ashamed as expected, maybe skittish, Harry’s body language actually relaxes as one side of his mouth tugs up. A half-shrug. “You think Zayn would actually let me keep that? Nah, mate; he ripped the cheque up.”

Liam’s laugh is more an exhale of disbelief. Even though it shouldn’t be, because that seems like something Zayn would do. A moment is spent gazing at the magazine cover, a gentle smirk revealing itself. “Right,” he nods toward the two journalists, “Thanks again.”

They murmur reply as Liam fixes the issue under his arm, spins around to start up a quick pace. 

A hitch in his grand plan, yes, but Zayn hasn’t left yet, and Liam’s already decided to not give up this time.

**

Zayn doesn’t know why he’s ceaselessly baffled by New York’s traffic. To be fair, though, it’s half three on a Wednesday, so there’s reason to wonder where so many people are rushing to. He marvels at taxi drivers as well, because he would die of even the possibility of road rage before being faced with it in the streets all day every day. Sometimes he’s irked by just watching the flow of traffic from his apartment. Or the lack of flow, as it is.

Preparing for the worst, he left his flat early just in case the streets got backed up, and sitting backseat of the cab, he’s content to wait it out. When he’s not stressed beyond belief, as it turns out, it’s an idly entertaining game to people watch from the car, trying to come up with a backstory for the faces he passes by. But maybe he should pause his game lest he grows vexed with it before the airport.

He had wanted to fly home the night of the Dilaurentis Party, but tickets were priced quite a pretty penny, and his parents would have only worried as to why he needed to be there so quickly, likely deducing that he either lost his job, broke his heart, or killed someone.

So, instead, he rang his mum the following morning to ask how keen she would be to keep him for the end of June and beginning of July, said that he had a build-up of vacation days to use. Which isn’t untrue, exactly; he now has an indefinite amount of days to spend away from Prestige. He also conveniently forgot to mention the job interviews he’s set up in Manchester and London, but it’s his own life, and there’s no use in teasing of such indefinite opportunities.

Crossing the Queensboro Bridge, Zayn thinks he – well, there’s a flash of –

No. Sleep deprivation must be getting to him, because he thought he saw a sleek Ducati, a familiar body. But that’s ridiculous. Because there have got to be hundreds of motorcycles in Manhattan alone and one hundred times as many men. Besides, Liam should be hard at work right now producing his advertisements for Dilaurentis Diamonds. He’s not thinking of silly boys.

And Zayn is not a prince, and this is not a fairytale.

And Zayn might have to punch himself for edging so close to a Taylor Swift lyric.

He plugs in his earbuds, cranks up the songs his dad used to play on lazy afternoons, crooned lyrics floating throughout the house. There’s around an hour of his commute left, and he could do with the nostalgic solace.

—— 

Two pieces of baggage is all Zayn packed, and he thinks he’d rather have lugged along three carry-ons if it meant not having to brave the line to check his lone suitcase onto the plane. It’s recommended to arrive at your airport two to three hours before an international flight, apparently, because so many people crossing borders feel the need to let every item they possess experience the travel as well.

He knows private jets are shit for the environment, but he understands why they’re sought after.

It’s now almost closer to 5:00pm than 4:00, and his flight is set to leave at 7:55, so he entertains the plan of grabbing outrageously expensive airport food and curling up in a café before checking through security at his terminal. With any luck, he won’t be ‘randomly’ selected for an in-depth screening. 

Terminal 7 is where he’s meant to be, but it’s probably the least food-stocked of the eight terminals of JFK, so he wastes precious LTE data to search up ‘ _cafés in JFK airport_ ’. Once he’s glossed over a few reviews, Zayn AirTrains over to _Peet’s Coffee & Tea_.

The wrap he orders is good, eggy, and his dark roast is smooth. He doesn’t have complaints other than to suggest they rename the joint ‘ _Peet’s Tea & Coffee_’ so it rolls easier off the tongue, but who is he, anyway?

By the time he makes it back around to his terminal it’s 5:04pm, but he doesn’t want to lock himself inside the gate yet. There’s a Starbucks to his immediate right once the AirTrain comes to a rest, so he slides into a provided seat. It’s truly incredible how unscrupulous he feels just by bringing another restaurant’s product into Starbucks.

Nevertheless, Zayn settles himself at a two-person table and shrugs his rucksack to the floor, rouses through it to pull out the sequel to his crime thriller novel. He’s only glazed over the blurb, skimmed through a few pages, and read the last sentence, but already it’s noticeable that this one will air a much more domesticated vibe. Which isn’t viewed as a let-down, because Zayn still hasn’t recovered from the intensity of its predecessor. 

The parallel world has him wrapped up tightly enough by the fourth page for him to not take a glimpse at the person who grazes past him. He bargains to do so at the end of his current paragraph, but then he pushes it past the next, and by then he’s truly too amused by the protagonist’s snarkiness to scowl at someone who had a mishap with personal space.

Two pages later, though, the chair in front of Zayn scrapes backward across linoleum, and Zayn’s annoyance is piqued enough for him to force his head up.

It’s like a jump scare, only Zayn’s pulse is what skips while the rest of his body stiffens, freezes.

“Can I ask what you’re reading?” Liam’s tone is enviously light, tiny smile as he gestures towards the chair, asking if he can join.

Of course. Of _fucking_ course something like this would happen to Zayn. He has to look away, grips his book taut and licks over his teeth. He’s a far cry from suave right about now. And he truly does try to vocalize something, _anything_ , but there’s a blockage of cotton in his throat. A jerk of the head is managed, at least.

“You were engrossed. It must be good,” Liam remarks as he settles into his chair, hands in his lap. Small talk, soft voice. A leaning slouch makes for a demeanor that appears completely eased, but his hands are hidden beneath the table, so Zayn can only selfishly hope it’s to disguise a nervous tic.

A tinge of shock is still prominent on Zayn’s mind, but there’s a creeping discomfort, something not sitting quite right in his stomach. Embarrassment. So he tucks his chin and suffers through his face heating in the worst way. “It is,” he clears his throat.

Surely Liam is aware of the quality to Zayn’s emotions, but the man remains politely reserved. There’s a bitten lip, maybe a wince, but his head is tilted too far down as familiar eyes flicker upward. “I found something as well,” he finally says, lays carefully Prestige Magazine on the table between them.

 _Fuck_. Zayn takes back his unwritten invitation for Liam to hold stake in the article. He doesn’t want the man to touch it with a ten-foot pole, doesn’t want to be in this current predicament with so many relevant questions he can’t speak into existence. But it’s obvious Liam already _has_ become aware of it, because he’s sitting across from Zayn at a Starbucks in terminal 7 of JFK airport with a copy of the column.

The older man doesn’t _seem_ particularly high-strung or angry or upset. But Zayn’s not exactly in a proper mindset to analyze. And, rationally he knows that there is an extremely low threat of danger, but he still wants to run. Flight over fight.

A sip of his still-warm coffee helps Zayn anchor himself mentally. Which springs the revelation that Zayn should be wondering how the hell Liam found him here, what he’s specifically _doing_ here, but what tumbles out of his mouth is, “I’m sorry.”

Liam’s facial expression adjusts itself incrementally, finally sticks with a genuinely confused moue, eyebrows stretched high and curved pityingly, and eyes shining with a hint of mirth. “For what, Zayn?”

Stomping down the flutter in his belly at the question so easily made intimate with use of his own name (because, _really_ , Zayn is pathetic), the younger searches for an appropriate answer. Most intentionally, Zayn meant he’s sorry that Liam had to read the article. See how his game was calculatedly, clinically laid out. How each hassle or insult was aimed to injure. But Zayn should also apologize for reacting so hypocritically the night of the party. And for most likely mortifying Liam in front of his colleagues and associates, friends.

The book is laid spine up. “For – everything,” Zayn manages. “What I did to you was utter shit, and.” A quick sip of his beverage is taken, and Zayn hopes Liam knows he’s not finished as his eyes sweep over the section of the airport unseeingly. “I shouldn’t have gone ahead with the article from the beginning, but especially not after you found out.”

“No,” is almost a coo, Liam’s initial reaction, but then he straightens up, accidentally rattles the table with his knee. Firmer, “I’m glad you wrote the article, Zayn. It was nice to see everything from your point of view.” A light chuckle, chocolate eyes blinking up through framing lashes so beautifully.

For whatever reason, Liam’s shoulders have fallen forward and his tone has diminished in power. It’s like he’s curling in on himself, and Zayn feels an urge to wrap himself around the other man, rub his back to balm ailment. As it is, Liam seems to be waffling over words in his head, so Zayn doesn’t cross any lines.

After a moment, he speaks up, fingers twisting together. “It was difficult for me not to take everything personally. I mean, during those two weeks I had no clue what was going on with you and I truly couldn’t tell if you were just erratic or malicious. I kind of caught on, I think. Figured it was some sort of act, but I didn’t know what for.” He licks his lips locks gaze with a tense Zayn. “But the article let me know that you aren’t insane, that you’re not malicious either. You never sought out to harm _me_ , it was just a casualty of doing your job.”

Zayn holds his tongue for all of two seconds before he’s grimacing out, “Liam, what I did still isn’t justified, and –”

“I came here to tell you that I want to forgive you,” Liam saves them from what would have been a dreadfully incompetent ramble.

The simple sentence’s effect on Zayn is immediate and substantial. A sudden burst of joy he tries to conceal because there’s still a weighing shame that makes Zayn want to declare that he doesn’t deserve forgiveness. 

The younger’s boy conflict must be palpable to Liam because he continues: “I’m still trying to work through it, yes, and I’m still bothered by everything that happened.” A breath as he focuses intently on Zayn’s face. “But I contributed to the mess, too. So I’m here to apologize to you and ask _your_ forgiveness.”

“Li,” Zayn can’t help but murmur, eyebrows permanently tight together, apparently. This time his hand shoots out to nudge Liam’s fingers before it can be stopped. The touch is so relieving that he craves to blanket himself in it, but it also ignites a fire in his tummy, and he’s shocked enough by himself to jerk his arm backward, gape so hideously.

“Let me speak, love,” Liam berates gently around his smile that’s twitching to grow wider, a deeper shine to his eyes. He reaches out while Zayn is still unmoving to curl his fingers around the slender hand. “I didn’t say what I should have the last time I saw you, so I need to now.”

Against a wilting self-control, Zayn preens at the pet name and under the touch, knows it can be seen in his cheeks. And this _has_ to be a good indication of where Liam’s affections lay, right? But there’s always a chance he’s just being polite – or, worse: trying to screw Zayn over as revenge.

Liam, always so adept in reading Zayn, eradicates the younger’s nasty thoughts by hooking their ankles together and trailing his thumb over smooth knuckles. “The bet was fucked up. Looking back I can see that it was Pearson and Steele who engineered our relationship as an underhanded way to keep the Diamond Campaign,” he kind of trails off as his jaw flexes. “But I still shook on it.”

A little confused but not surprised by the colleague information, Zayn is about to ask clarification when he halts at the look on Liam’s face.

Renewed vigor shows in a puffed chest and intense gaze. “What I need you to know, Zayn, is that our time together was not about my bet. Especially when you weren’t trying to kill me –” he breaks to shoot a teasing glare at the boy “– the wager was only a bonus to being with you.”

Zayn nods along, heart lurching at the confession. “I’m willing to forgive you as well.” But it’s not so simple, and he knows that. With a worrying brow he glances up to Liam’s face. A miniscule part of him hopes to be drowned out by the ruckus of airport – chatter, beepings, luggage wheels – so he won’t have to put himself out there further. “So what does all of this mean for us?”

The older doesn’t appear particularly taken by the question. There’s a visible swallow, though, as he ducks down to nod at the magazine, squeezes Zayn’s hand. “Is what you said true?”

Better posed at the start of the conversation Liam’s question arguably would have been. But Zayn thinks a select quote might be what the older man is really asking about. With a steeled jaw, thrumming pulse, “I meant every word, Liam.”

The man’s answering beam is devastating as he leverages himself on his forearms. “Then I’m hoping to continue seeing you. And, er –” he matches Zayn’s slight tilt inward, “if it’s not too forward, I’d like to be able to introduce you as my boyfriend from now on.”

A breech in Liam’s confidence is evident, and Zayn finds it impossibly endearing the bitten lip and quieter tone. He leans still closer to the man, hardly keeps himself from bumping their noses together. “I like the sound of that, bumblebee.”

It’s entirely too easy to melt into Liam’s lips on his own. His heart is racing, of course, but Liam is holding his chin steady and the older’s mouth is warm. And Zayn has missed this intimacy terribly, fingers curling at Liam’s nape and into the collar of his button-down to sneak out his tongue and moan against Liam’s.

At a break Zayn finally asks the question he couldn’t utter when Liam first sat down: “How did you find me, Li?” A genuinely curious tone, tilted head.

Liam is reasonably distracted, quickly spouts, “I read the article and had to see you. So I went to your office, found out from your friend – er, Zoe, maybe? – and the _not_ -therapist, who must actually be Harry, that you quit and were on your way to the airport. I saw you in the line to check your bag into cargo but looked at the flight board and went straight to terminal 7 to avoid a wild goose chase. Or, y’know, stalking.”

To Zayn’s standards that’s quite a bit of work. Or maybe he’s still dizzy with Liam’s kiss. Either way, “You’re so perfect,” he practically swoons before swooping back in to press his mouth to Liam’s.

The older only allows on drawn peck before purring, “Only the best for you.” He doesn’t make room for reply, catches Zayn’s lips again and teases at the stubble on the younger’s jaw.

When they break apart it’s evidently too soon for both of them because a stream of shorter, less wet kisses follow.

“God, I can’t believe Louis pulled his shit off,” Liam groans, “I should have connected that you were speaking of the same Zoe, that you and her worked at the same place. And Harry, the same. I sat in a room with him for an hour discussing our relational issues.” Liam sends an unimpressed glare to Zayn at the last bit, but there’s no heat, and he looks down at the table afterward in defeat. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

A whine of discontent voices out of Zayn, and he nudges their foreheads together so the other will meet his eyes. “Don’t, Liam. If I would have connected that Pearson and Steele knew about my article and were also vying for the Diamond Campaign then the night of the party would have gone down quite differently.”

Liam tilts his head and sports a moue as if to concede, so Zayn cuts in before there can be a self-depreciating argument. “Let’s not, okay? I haven’t seen you in two weeks, and I’m tired of hurting. I think we both deserve a break.”

The older’s brow remains troubled, but he nods, nudges in for another kiss.

They stay like that for some time, soaking in each other’s presence and tangling fingers and petting over skin despite the slightly chaotic environment. And it’s a bit inappropriate to make out at an airport, Zayn thinks, but he doesn’t care much. He’s sure the place has seen more suggestive displays, anyway.

At that thought, Zayn genuinely chuckles as his lazy lids open. “’m so glad we didn’t have a huge Airport Scene.” 

A shaking head, titters, and a playful grin. The kissing is therapeutic, apparently. “We’ve still got your homecoming, yeah?” There’s an actual question below the jest, timid as it is.

Which, oh, yeah. Zayn has two interviews set up in a different country that Liam may or may not know about. But, if he’s being honest with himself, he probably wouldn’t take either one if offered. Partially because his family was so pleased when he decided to set out for the states, but also because he’s made a home for himself in New York. 

And, now, a boyfriend that he’d like a shot with. “Yeah,” he affirms.

Liam smiles as his shoulders visibly lift. “Good, because there’s a dining table begging for you to make good on your _filthy_ word from two weeks ago.”

Rolling his eyes to appear unaffected even though they both know he’s anything but, “Alright, Hulk.” Zayn should have known Liam would beg for a dick up his arse first chance.

Liam bites at Zayn’s lower lip unforgivingly, but Zayn feels the rumble of a laugh.

And Zayn’s so ecstatic, far from terrified. But he’s able to admit that it doesn’t mean their relationship isn’t relevant or serious or significant. And he realizes there are plenty of fights to be had and happenings to discuss still, but he wants it.

And he figures the former they can take out on each other with the table, at least.

**Author's Note:**

> I would love helpful critique.
> 
> tumblr: [rogueziam](Http://rogueziam.tumblr.com)
> 
> Fic post w/ graphic: [x](http://www.rogueziam.tumblr.com/post/146561275981/all-is-fair-in-love-and-war-by-badlands)
> 
> All kudos, comments, and bookmarks truly are greatly appreciated!
> 
> If you're feeling generous or want to motivate me to get content out faster, consider supporting me on my ko-fi page: [MasonL](https://ko-fi.com/Masonl)


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